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25 Cts. 


1 ; 


No. 93 



Copyright, 1885, 
by Harpbr & Brothers 


September 10, 1886 per 


Entered at the Post-Office at New York, as Second-class Mail IMatter 


F R A. N C I S 

21 SonaliBtU Romante 

BEING FOR THE MOST PART AN IDTIL OP 
ENGLAND AND SUMMER 

/ 

By M. dal VEKO 



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Dr. Johnson 


•new YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 

1886 


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FRANCIS. 


CHAPTER I. 

GRIME AND SLIME. 

Love whose month is ever May. 

Love's Labour Lost, iv. 3. 

See where she comes, apparelled like the spring, 

Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king 
Of every virtue gives renown to men ; 

Pericles, i. 1. 

Prepare, Madam, prepare ! Love doth approach disguised. 

Love's Labour Lost, v. 2. 

It was the merry month of May, the May of poets in 
completeness,-” for a kindly sun shone down upon the 
earth, and the birds were singing, and the flowers were 
blooming, and all nature was keeping holiday. 

The clock struck five in the old church-tower of the 
village of Mary cross as the latch et of one of the lodge- 
gates leading into the grounds of the Hall was lifted, and 
Rose Caldicott, the squire’s daughter, came out, prepared 
for a long country ramble. And never had the sun looked 
down upon a fairer sight than this young maiden, with 
her fresh and lovely face, her lithe slender form and that 
lightness and elasticity of movement which only youth 
and health and happiness combined can give. She was 
herself the very embodiment of a day in spring. The girl 
was dressed in a cotton frock rather artistically tljan fash- 


4 


FRANCIS. 


ionably made, for the newest fashions did not come to 
Marycross ; but a sense of grace and of loveliness was in- 
herent in its wearer : little sprays of roses ran up and 
down upon a delicately tinted ground, and other roses to 
match, life-size because they were real, nestled in the folds 
of the soft white kerchief she wore about her neck, and 
wreathed themselves round the large straw hat which kept 
out the inquisitive glances of the sun. It is not generally 
considered right to begin the description of a woman by 
telling what she wore. Yet, how better can one form an 
idea of a woman at a glance than by noticing her dress ? 
it never fails to give some index to the mind of the wearer ; 
and there was an immense deal of character in Rose’s 
simple attire. Moreover, a certain pathos hangs about 
this pretty frock which she had put on that afternoon, 
inasmuch as it was going forth on this occasion to meet 
its fate. 

Its wearer had little enough idea of this, or of anything 
out of the common awaiting her in her proposed ramble, 
as, having finished her self-imposed duties for the day, 
and read the last chapter of the romance which she had 
been longing to complete, she went out, not decided upon 
which way she should take, but resolved to avoid as much 
as might be all dirty roads, and, keeping to green fields 
and shady lanes> climbing fences and creeping under 
hedges, enjoy what had been her delight from earliest 
childhood, a regular scramble. Rose Caldicott’s recrea- 
tions were of a very simple nature, and her enjoyment of 
life sprang rather from her own innate capacity for enjoy- 
ment, which found food for itself, and the atmosphere of 
love surrounding her, than from anything in the outer 
circumstances of her existence. To most girls of eighteen 
such a life as hers would have seemed intolerably dull 

Ever since the death of his wife, Mr. Caldicott, by nature 
a shy and quiet man for whom society had little attrac- 


GEIME AND SLIME. 


5 


tion, and whose chief interest lay in the study of science, 
had retired completely from the world, and, in the seclu- 
sion of his country home, devoted himself entirely to 
those pursuits which were most dear to him. He had a 
great care, indeed, for the education of his only daughter, 
and was not indifferent to the success of his two sons, who 
had chosen respectively the careers of the Army and the 
Bar ; but he did not trouble himself at all to keep up his 
acquaintances in the country, and absolutely eschewed 
what had always been to him the horrid bugbear of enter- 
taining. Thus Eose had lived up to this time an un- 
usually secluded life, and her dehut in the world, which 
was to have taken place this season in London under the 
auspices of an aunt, had been postponed indefinitely by 
the illness of one of Lady Lester’s children, which had de- 
tained her in Switzerland on her way home to England 
from the south. That this delay in her opportunity of 
blossoming forth into all the unknown delights of young 
ladyhood had been something of a disappointment to 
Eose, cannot be denied, but she had interests deeper, en- 
joyments of a higher kind, than any which society could 
have afforded her, and she was fain to think that gaiety 
could have no very great attractions for her. Eose had 
inherited her father’s taste for study, together with the 
love of the beautiful and a poetic temperament which had 
been the especial characteristics of her mother. Her dis- 
position was, in fact, a quaint combination of the vision- 
ary and romantic with the practical. Nature had endowed 
her with a very vivid and powerful imagination, and this 
had been fostered by the long hours of solitude and reflec- 
tion, that formed part of her daily life; and, as is some- 
times the CAse with imaginative spirits, Eose was gifted 
with a wonderful power of sympathy, warm, ever ready 
and far reaching, a strong love of mankind at large, tinged 
with the optimism natural to happy, healthy youth. Eose 


6 


FKANCIS. 


had read deeply, if not widely ; the dusty old tomes in her 
father’s library, which no one else thought of touching, 
had given solid food to her hungry, omnivorous mind. 
Of late some modern literature had come in her way, 
which, overturning many of the ideas in which she had 
grown up, and setting her vigorous brain on a new and[ 
deeply fascinating track, had imbued her, as deeply as I 
one can be at eighteen, with the principles of what those 
who hold its tenets term Christian Socialism. The broth- 
erhood of man, the grandeur of labor, the awful strength 
and dignity of the People, had so impressed the girl, that 
the blue blood which ran in her own veins seemed to her 
now almost a matter of regret ; and the long rows of an- 
cestors looking down upon her, stately and wise, from 
their frames — objects ofher childhood’s veneration — ceased 'j 
entirely to form the themes of those romances which her il 
fertile brain was continually weaving — albeit her fingers | 
seldom found the patience to commit any part of them to i 
paper. The cottagers on her father’s estate, the men I 
breaking stones in the road, had acquired for her a new ' 
and half -mysterious interest, and the very sight of a man ; 
in working clothes gave her a feeling of respect akin to 
awe. Little as those who awoke such sensations in her 
might be worthy of them, they were at least ennobling to 
their possessor ; and Avhen her practical propensities came 
to the front, making her, in default of more original 
methods of befriending her fellow-men, embark ardently 
in night-schools, Sunday classes, village recreations, and ' 
the like useful enterprises, under the direction of the rec- 
tor of the parish, her father’s brother, Rose’s philanthropic 
impulse found, if not free scope, at least considerable play, 
while her schemes for the future, her magnificent castle- 
building for the People, and the quickness of her eyes in | 
discerning the unconscious poetry of nature, lightened up j 
what might have been the drudgery of such avocations. ^ 


GRIME AND SLIME. 


7 


Rose passed out of the park and into a shady green 
lane, where the May -bushes met overhead, and, as the 
breeze caught the topmost branches, showered down their 
small white petals on her, and so on, following the pleas- 
ant windings of the path for full a mile. Then turning 
out of the lane, she scrambled through a small coppice, 
and emerged into the long grass of a field of growing hay ; 
her light footsteps bent the haughty stems but lightly as 
she passed from one end of the long meadow to the other, 
startling the lark from its retreat as she went by, and 
stopping for a moment to examine the nest full of young 
birds the mother had left behind to hide herself in air. A 
climb over a fence at the further end of the field brought 
Rose out into another lane, and opposite to her stood a 
quaint old farm-house, with broad bow-windows projecting 
from the upper story and overhanging the garden, with 
gables turning in opposite directions, creeping plants 
which grew up to the roof, and the most exquisite of 
weather-staining. The place was unfamiliar to Rose, 
though this was not, of course, the first time that she had 
passed that way. It was at some distance beyond the 
boundary of her father’s estate, and not conveniently ac- 
cessible in driving or on horseback. Rose paused for a few 
moments to admire, then followed the lane up a somewhat 
steep hill, from the brow of which there was an extended 
view on every side. As she seated herself on a grassy 
knoll, and faced the direction from which she came, her 
eyes rested on the church tower at Marycross, the roof of 
the Hall just visible among the trees, the old group of 
Scotch firs on St. Agnes’ Mount, which formed a landmark 
for many miles round, and other well-known points of 
view, all mellowed by a soft and scarcely perceptible blue 
haze. AVhen Rose got up, she turned and looked in the 
opposite direction, where was a sight that moved her 
gentle heart to pity: it was that of a town, the manufac- 


8 


FKANCIS. 


turing town of Abbotstoke, with its tall chimneys belch- 
ing out clouds of smoke, which hung over the dirty streets 
and many squalid houses of what was certainly a very un- 
attractive place. Eose sighed as she thought of those con- 
demned to live their lives in such an atmosphere ; then, see- 
ing nothing to be gained by pursuing her route any further 
in that direction, she turned and descended the hill on 
her way home. Just before arriving at the farm-house, 
however, she was tempted, by the sight of an open gate, 
into a field which was traversed by a very dubious path. 
Presently the path diverged, and, following it to the left, 
Eose found herself in a shady coppice. The narrow track 
along which she was walking was inclosed on either side 
by reeds as tall as herself, for the place was swampy, and 
only needed a few days of rain to be converted into a reg- 
ular marsh. It was cool here, and very shady. Dragon- 
flies skimmed past, darting hither and thither, and midges 
danced aimlessly up and down in swarms. There were 
iris plants just budding, and beds of bright golden king- 
cups stretching down to the water — ^for presently it ap- 
peared there was water. The path, in fact, led to what 
might have unpoetically been called a very broad ditch of 
a muddy and rather unattractive appearance, though the 
yellow flowers and the reeds and rushes, with their grace- 
ful curves which pushed their way down into it from the 
banks, redeemed its appearance from absolute ugliness. 
This water, or, more strictly speaking, watery mud, was 
traversed by a crooked tree-trunk thrown across. It was 
green and slippery, and offered no very certain foothold ; 
but Eose was not to be deterred by obstacles ; she had 
often made more dangerous essays than that of crossing 
this primitive bridge, and she wanted to know where the 
path led out. She surveyed the log critically for a mo- 
ment, and had just made her first step upon it, when the 
sound of whistling which approached caused her to look 


GEIME AND SLIME. 


9 


up, and she saw coming through the reeds on the opposite 
bank — where the path, as narrow and shut in as it was on 
her own side, made a sudden turn — the figure of a young 
man in working clothes, who held a bunch of kingcups in 
his hands. He emerged, and was evidently about to cross 
the ditch himself, but, seeing Eose, waited that she might 
pass over first. This made her a trifle nervous; it would 
have been easier to make her passage without a spectator. 
Should she give it up and return ? No, that would be the 
height of weakness ; and, after all, of what possible conse- 
quence was the presence of this artisan? She started, 
therefore, and liad got half-way across, slowly and cau- 
tiously but in safety, when an evil fate induced her to 
look up, and she saw that the young workman was watch- 
ing her movements intently.*^ She was keeping him wait- 
ing, she said to herself ; without doubt he was in a hurry 
to pass; she was wasting the precious time of one of 
England's producers ! Eose tried to hasten her steps, 
and, direful consequence, her foot slipped — her balance 
was lost — she fell — down into the midst of green things 
and crawling things and unutterable slime. Never in her 
life will Eose forget her sensations as she emerged from 
the ditch, drizzling and covered up to her shoulders with 
the black ooze which had almost enveloped her. What 
with the shock occasioned by her fall, the vexation she 
felt at this ignominious disaster in the presence of a man 
moreover, however insignificant the man, she could have 
fallen sobbing; and, since laughter and tears are very 
near of kin, when the ludicrous side of the episode struck 
her, as it speedily did, Eose could not refrain from a fit of 
laughter, in which her grimy spectator — for he was ex- 
ceedingly grimy, covered with dirt and oil — had evidently 
some difficulty in not joining. He was down among the 
rushes in a moment, offering to help her up the bank, but 
she did not require his aid. 


10 


FRANCIS. 


I hope you are not hurt,” he said. 

No,, thank you, not at all. I am very much obliged 
to you,” as he produced a pocket-handkerchief which, 
considering everything, might have been dirtier, and sug- 
gested that she might like to wipe her hands. 

I am afraid it is not very clean,” he said. 

Eose observed that he pronounced the words afwaid 
and veivy, but was in too sorry a plight to trouble herself 
much about the blacks which had made their way into his 
pocket, and yet less about his pronunciation. Still, she 
did not care to accept the loan of a handkerchief from this 
common mechanic. She hesitated for a moment. Then 
the urgency of the case and the thought of the equality of 
man, which made it a blameworthy instance of pride to 
refuse an act of ordinary kiiidness and courtesy because it 
was offered by an inferior, induced her to accept it, and 
she was able to divest herself of a small quantity of the 
mud and duckweed which clung to her, while her grimy 
companion went down to the ditch, and, ankle-deep in 
the slush, succeeded in drawing out with a stick the hat 
which she had worn. 

I donT suppose it wdll be of much use to you, now I 
have it,” he said. “ Are you afraid of catching cold ? 
May 1” — with a little hesitation — ^‘may I offer you 
mine ? ” and he doffed the large gray felt hat which he 
wore, uncovering a mass of wavy, light-brown hair. 

Here, however, Eose thought it necessary to draw the 
line, and she declined it with a dignity hardly in keeping 
with the sliminess of her condition. She was sufficiently 
recovered by this time to rise from the bank upon which 
she had seated herself, but the question now presented 
itself, what was she to do next ? She could hardly walk 
back to Marycross in this state. 

‘^Do you know if there is any cottage near here,” she 
asked, where I could go and have my things dried ? ” 


GRIME Al^D SLIME. 


11 


The mechanic replied that he did not know of any cot- 
tage close by, hut that there was a farm-house at a very 
short distance thence, where he himself was lodging, and 
that he was sure the farmer^s wife, by name Mrs. Web- 
ster, would be very happy to lend her anything she might 
require. All this was expressed in such very good Eng- 
lish, and the speaker’s manner was so quiet and respect- 
ful — one might say, in fact, gentlemanly — and his voice 
was so pleasantly modulated and low, that Eose forgot the 
little instance of forwardness he had shown in offering 
her his hat, and accepted gratefully his proffered guid- 
ance to the adjacent farm. 

But there was that horrible ditch to be crossed again. 
The mechanic offered assistance and held out his hand. 
Eose took it, and thus ventured on the log. She was 
trembling now, however, and rather giddy in consequence 
of her late fall, and her hoots were uncomfortably slippery. 
The disagreeable mishap of ten minutes ago might have 
been repeated, but her assistant, seeing by the look in her 
face that she was in danger, held out his other hand also, 
letting the kingcups fall as he did so. 

Don’t look down there,” he said. There was some- 
thing commanding in his quiet voice, which Eose in- 
stinctively obeyed. Look at me.” And so they crossed 
the ditch in safety. 

In looking, Eose saw a pair of gray-green eyes with very 
dark lashes, an oval face which was rather too thin, a 
mouth which was rather too small, but well formed and 
shaded by a slight moustache, a somewhat long and square 
forehead. The eyes were by nature rather serious ones, 
but they sparkled merrily enough, and a very pleasant 
smile came over the boy’s face— a face which depended 
entirely, Eose found out later, upon its expression, as he 
relinquished her hands on the other side of the ditch. He 
was only a boy, she saw, or at least little more than a boy 


12 


FEANCIS. 


— eighteen perhaps, or at the outside twenty — very slight 
and thin, and to all appearance hardly strong enough 
physically for the hard work which was, it seemed, his 
lot. Rose asked him about his occupation, his circum- 
stances, and other like matters, upon which it was her 
wont to make friendly inquiries in her visits among the 
poor. He said that his name was Francis Greye. He 
was working in the large iron works of Messrs. Marsden 
& Co. in the neighboring town of Abbotstoke, and was 
apprenticed to them for three years. He went to work 
at six in the morning, had half an hour for breakfast and 
an hour for dinner, and left in the evening at five. When 
Rose had met him he was on his way hack to the farm, 
where he had taken lodgings for the summer, having been 
recommended country air, “and to get out of the dirt and 
smoke,” he said — “ though, to be sure, I bring a good deal 
of it home with me,^^ he added, glancing at his clothes. 
They were common over-alls, or, as they are sometimes 
vulgarly designated, slops, made of canvas, which had 
once presumably been white, and would also presumably 
never be otherwise than black again. 

“ But you can wash yourself,” Rose suggested, a little 
timidly. 

“Oh, yes,” he answered, “I do clean up in the even- 
ings.” 

“ Are your parents living ? ” she next inquired. 

“My father died some years ago,” he replied, “but my 
mother is alive; I generally go home to her for Sundays.” 

“And I suppose you are able to help her a little with 
your wages,” said Rose, who had read all the books in the 
village library, and was well versed in the ways of widowed 
mothers and their affectionate, industrious sons. 

“ Well, no ; not exactly,” he answered, with a decided 
smile which his companion did not see, as they were per- 
force walking Indian file along the narrow path. “ You 


GBIME AND SLIME. 


13 


see I only get ten shillings a week,” he continued, unless 
I have the chance of working over hours.” 

I They had now emerged into the field, and Francis Greye 
I said he would run and apprise Mrs. Webster of Rose’s 
coming ; which he did with surprising swiftness and agil- 
ity, leaping over a brook which came in his way with the 
lightness of a young deer. 

When Rose arrived at the gate of the old farm-house 
she had a short time ago stopped to admire, Mrs. Webster 
had come out to meet her there. 

^^Miss Caldicott, isn’t it?” she inquired. ‘‘Why, you 
are in a way, Miss ! Do, pray, come in and change your 
things.” 

I Rose’s appearance was indeed what may be described as 
: unusual, the lower part of her body resembling nothing so 
much as a long dead and buried, but just excavated, god- 
■ dess of the stream — her head uncovered, while her hair, 
which was always liable to come down, had escaped alto- 
gether from the bondage of hairpins under the trying 
circumstances to which it had been subjected, and floated 
about her shoulders in long soft tresses, which the breeze 
blew to and fro. 

The young workman watched her as she went into the 
house accompanied by Mrs. Webster, and then made some 
inquiries concerning her from the farmer, who was stand- 
ing on the garden-path smoking a short pipe. From him 
Francis was able to And out nearly all he wished to know. 
It interested him much. 

“ The squire is a queer old flsh,” said Webster. “Never 
I sees a soul out of his own family; no one else hardly 
I passes inside his doors. They call Rosemary Hall the 
Hermitage since Mrs. Caldicott has been dead. I don’t 
I know how it will be when this young lady’s grown up. 
iWell, she is pretty well grown up now, one may say. 
They tell me she’ll be the beauty of the county ; but she 


14 


FBAN'CIS. 


must have a dull time of it with that old gentleman, it’s 
my opinion; he don’t care about anything but his insects 
and his fossils, and them things.” 

In the meantime Rose had been taken up to the best 
bedroom unoccupied, and furnished from Mrs. Webster’s 
wardrobe with everything that was necessary for a change 
of apparel — though the lilac cotton gown which she had 
at last persuaded the good woman to lend, in the place of 
the black silk destined for the purpose, which she consid- 
ered far more fitting for a squire’s daughter, was large 
enough to have held two of her at least. 

Mrs. Webster insisted upon Rose having a cup of tea, 
which M^as served in the old-fashioned parlor, a broad low 
room with oaken rafters in the ceiling, and latticed win- 
dow-panes, thrown wide open. The air blew in through I 
the casement, sweet with the scent of lilacs and May, and! 
the wallflowers thrust their brown heads up to the win-' 
dow, and. mixed their homely wholesome odor with the 
rest. The farmer’s children were playing in the front 
garden. Francis had lifted one of them on to the top of 
the gate, and was lazily swinging it to and fro, to the 
urchin’s no small delight. 

The whole scene was pleasant, rural, and picturesque, 
not the least factor in it being the slight figure of the 
young artisan, who stood, his large hat pushed back, the 
evening sun lighting up his face and catching a golden 
gleam in his hair. 

Your lodger seems to be very good friends with the 
children,” Rose remarked to Mrs. Webster, as she got up 
from her seat and prepared to go. 

‘^Yes, he is always good to little Fred, bringing him 
home sweets and toys, and such-like, from the town. 
Fred is my youngest, Miss, and crippled — the only weakly 
child I’ve ever had.” 

After some expression of sympathy. Rose made an- 


GKIME AKD SLIME. 


15 


other observation of an interrogative nature respecting 
her assistant at the ditch. He seems a nice quiet young 
man,” she said. 

‘‘Oh, yes. Miss; very nice and quiet indeed; he don’t 
give no trouble. He just goes into his work, in the morn- 
ing, and comes out to tea as regular as clock-work, except 
when he goes to his own home.” 

“He does not look very strong.” 

“ I don’t think he is. Miss. He sits up till all hours of the 
night at his books, and then up at five to go in to Abbot- 
stoke ; and one can’t burn the candle at both ends, you see.” 

They had reached the door by this time, and the subject 
of their conversation came down the path, after lifting the 
crippled child very carefully from the gate and depositing 
him on the ground. 

“How lovely your honeysuckle is!” Eose exclaimed, 
looking at a luxuriant mass in full fiower which covered 
one side of the house. “We have not any in blossom at 
Marycross yet.” 

“Will you not have some. Miss?” said Mrs. Webster, 
but a little doubtfully, for a fence shut off that side of the 
building from the place where they stood. 

Before Eose had time to answer, the young mechanic 
had sprung over the boundary, and in two minutes he 
leapt back and presented her with a bunch of the sweet 
flowers. For the sixth time that afternoon Eose had oc- 
casion to thank Francis, which she did with so much 
grace and with such a charm of manner, that he would 
have gladly seized the opportunity for making himself 
useful to her a seventh time, had it only presented itself. 
It was now Eose’s turn, however, to offer kindness. 

“I hear you are fond of reading,” she said. “Would 
you care for me to lend you some books ?” 

Francis thanked her, and said he should be very glad of 
them indeed. 


16 


FBANCIS. 


Then, after again expressing her gratitude to Mrs. 
Webster for the hospitality she had received, Kose turned 
once more to Francis, and somewhat shyly held out to 
him the only coin she had found in her pocket, -a shilling. 

With a bow that Lord Chesterfield might have envied 
him, the grimy mechanic retired a pace on the pathway, 
saying, as he did so, No, thank you.’^ 


CHAPTER n. 

AN OBJECT FOR PHILANTHROPY. 

I am as true as truth’s simplicity, 

And simpler than the infancy of truth. 

Troilua and Cressida, iii. 4. 

How green you are and fresh in this old world. 

King John, iii. 4. 

I 

For a few moments — that is, as long as the form of Eose 
was visible, before a turn in the lane hid her from sight — 
Francis stood at the gate looking down the road ; then, 
with the remains of a smile dying away on his lips, he re- 
turned to the house to go through the process he had de- 
scribed to her as cleaning up. It is not to be expected 
that the intelligent reader should be under the same false 
impression as Eose Caldicott concerning this young man — 
boy, if you will. Francis had just struck twenty. He 
was, in fact, a genuine laboring mechanic, working as 
hard at Marsden^s as any boy whose livelihood depended 
upon it — probably a good deal harder, for his whole heart 
was in this, his chosen occupation. Francis had early 
shown in what direction his abilities lay. He had con- 
structed a steam-engine before he was able to read, a fact 
which very few people would be brought to believe. As a 
little child he had selected for his future calling to be the . 


AN OBJECT FOE PHILANTHROPY. 17 

driver of e steam-roller, and no sooner had he outgrown 
this idea, than he had decided to be what nature as surely 
designed him for as she did any acorn to grow up into an 
oak, namely, a mechanical engineer. The grime on his 
clothes was real honest grime which had come there in the 
course of very genuine and unequivocal toil; but his fam- 
ily, instead of being of the lowly rank his apparel had led 
the inexperienced Kose to suppose, was one of the oldest 
and proudest in England ; and for the refinement of his 
manners, though Francis owed something, no doubt, di- 
rectly to nature, he was also under very great obligations 
to the society in which he had been brought up. More- 
over, far from being poor, he was much better off than 
usually falls to the lot of younger sons, having £300 a year 
already as pocket money, with the prospect of a consider- 
able addition to his income when he came of age. 

He was not what Rose believed him, what he allowed 
her to consider him, what for many a long day after he 
encouraged her to imagine him. Yet you will please to 
observe that the mistake was originally of her making; 
when he met her at the stream, and in their subsequent 
conversation, Francis had no intention, no desire even, of 
deceiving her, not the slightest wish to appear in any but 
his true position — which was in his eyes, whatever it 
might be in hers, a far more desirable one than that of a 
‘^Nature’s gentleman,"” the equal in rank of ploughboys 
and bred in a country hovel. It was no deeper reason 
than simple love of a joke, and possibly a slight and unac- 
knowledged sensation of pique, which had made him to- 
wards the close of their interview somewhat favor her 
delusion. 

Francis looked at himself in the glass before changing 
his raiment, and speculated whether he would have recog- 
nized Rose for what she was, if he had met her in some 
garb not usually worn by a lady — say, for instance, that of 
2 


18 


FBAI^CIS. 


a washerwoman. He decided that he should have done 
so, at any rate, directly he heard her speak ; and then fell 
to wondering whether they were likely to meet again, and 
plotting various schemes to that end. These he turned 
over in his mind still further that night, after he had ex- 
tracted from his landlady all the information which she 
was able to give him concerning Kose Caldicott, and the 
seclusion in which she was kept — a fact which had im- 
pressed Mrs. Webster even more deeply than it had her 
husband, and awakened her kindly pity. She told him 
also of Kose’s continual schemes for the benefit of the 
lower classes, and her zeal in laboring to carry them out ; 
of the affection in which she was held by all around, both 
small and great ; and the reputation she had for learning, 
scientific and otherwise. 

In the meantime, Kose had reached the Hall and given 
a graphic description of her adventure to her younger 
brother, Philip, who had just come over from Sandhurst. 
He was greatly amused by her recital, and not less by her 
praises of the young mechanic, and assurances that he 
could not have behaved in a more courteous manner or 
expressed himself better in conversation if he had been — 
“I will not say a gentleman,” were her words, “for that 
depends upon what a man is in himself, not what an acci- 
dent of birth has made him, but — well, simply one of our- 
selves.” 

At this juncture Mr. Caldicott came into the room. 

“ Well, Rose, which has got the better of it this time ? ” 
he asked, with a smile, for the generally amicable, but al- 
ways exceedingly animated, discussions which were con- 
tinually taking place between Philip and his sister were 
food to him for much quiet amusement. 

“We were not having an argument this time, father,” 
she replied. “ But I think I have got the better of it 
with Philip for ever and aye, for I have met with one of 


AK OBJECT FOR PHILANTHROPY. 


19 


the real Nature^s gentlemen in whom he refuses to believe 
— a poor mechanic earning ten shillings a week in an iron 
foundry, or something of that kind, who ” 

“Haven’t you heard of Squirrel’s adventure?” her 
brother broke in — Squirrel being Kose’s pet name with 
him and Geoffrey on account of the climbing propensities 
she had displayed as a child, and the swiftness with which 
she could run. “It is simply killing ! She was trying 
one of her Blondin feats in getting over a particularly 
slimy ditch by means of a log — wasn’t it ? — and managed 
to tumble in, head over ears in the mud, where she would 
have been at this moment buried, but for a little vulgar 
boy who happened to turn up just at the critical moment 
and obligingly fished her out.” 

“ I did not say little, Philip ! He is, I should think, 
an inch or two taller than myself.” 

“ Which is so very tall ! ” 

“ And most certainly not vulgar,” Kose went on, ignor- 
ing her brother’s parenthesis. “ He was most civil and 
obliging, father. Of course I walked out of the ditch all 
right” — with a reproachful glance at Philip, who was 
laughing too much to be properly crushed. “ It was my 
hat he fished up for me, and he showed me the way to the 
Websters’, that farm-house, you know, on the road to Ah- 
botstoke, where he is lodging, and helped me over the 
bridge in the politest manner imaginable, and ” — here she 
herself melted into a laugh— “ he lent me his pocket hand- 
kerchief that I might get rid of some of the mud.” 

A prolonged “ Ugh ! ” from Philip again aroused his 
sister’s indignation. 

“ Why not ? I thought it exceedingly kind of him.” 

“ And you said that he was dirty. Come, now, Squirrel, 
acknowledge that. Didn’t you tell me that he was cov- 
ered with grime and oil-stains from head to foot ? ” 

“ I think his face was clean, and his hat.” And then 


20 


FBANCIS. 


she recollected that Francis had wished to lend her his 
hat, but upon that point she discreetly kept silence. 

And when I offered him a shilling,” she went on, ‘‘ he 
refused to take it.” 

“ Perhaps he expected half a crown.” 

Here dinner was announced, and the two repaired to 
the adjoining room. 

“ I wish that I could do something for him, father,” 
said Kose, in the interval wliich followed soup, during 
which course she had been rather silent, for her, and 
thoughtful. 

“ Whom do you mean ?” inquired her brother. “ Your 
knight-errant in slops ? Suppose we ask him here to din- 
ner. Please inform us, Kose, do Nature’s gentlemen eat 
peas with a knife and bite their bread, or does their un- 
erring sense of what is fitting restrain them from making 
these little faux-pas f ” 

“ Philip, if you go on abusing my nice boy, I will not 
do another stitch of these silk socks I am knitting for 
your birthday ! ” 

“ Your argument is weak. Squirrel, and yet powerful. 
I will run down your grimy knight-errant no more. I 
suppose there is no harm in asking his name, is there ? I 
presume you were interested enough in him to inquire 
it?” 

“ Francis Greye. He is one of a large family, he told 
me, and he has a widowed mother.” 

“How pathetic! A widowed mother, who goes out 
charing probably, or takes in washing to support her 
orphaned children, and is doubtless one of Nature’s ladies I 
I feel quite certain of this young man’s virtue and de- 
lightful qualities, now I know he has a widowed mother. 
Hid you ask him where she lived ? ” 

“No; somewhere near Abbotstoke, I believe, for he 
goes home for Sundays.” 


OBJECT FOE PHILAKTHKOPY. 


21 


A model son. I see.” 

“ Take care, beware ! And, Arthur ” — as the footman 
left the room for a moment, his face wearing that aspect 
of melancholy gravity which is the usual expression of 
suppressed hilarity — I wish you would not talk in that 
way before the servants.” 

At the end of the park, half a mile from the Hall, stood 
the parsonage, a pleasant cottage in which the good old 
pastor of Marycross and his wife were passing pleasantly 
and usefully the latter years of their existence. Seldom 
did a day pass that the sweet voice and fair, smiling face 
of Eose Oaldicott came not to brighten, as with a gleam of 
sunshine, that childless house. 

^‘1 have come to have a talk with you. Aunty, dear,” 
said the girl, as she ran in the following morning with a 
basket of forced strawberries and a bunch of hothouse 
flowers. She always liked to be herself the bearer of such 
little offerings. 

That is right, my love. Sit down there on the win- 
dow seat, and let me hear all about it.” 

The gentle old lady listened with much interest to 
Bosom’s narration of her adventures of the preceding day, 
and, after assuring herself somewhat anxiously that her 
niece had sustained no serious injury from her fall, and 
had not caught a chill which would be liable to bring on 
consumption, she entered warmly into her interest con- 
cerning Francis G-reye. Never was a more tender and 
sympathetic heart than that of Mrs. Oaldicott. No tale 
of distress, real or feigned, ever failed to stir her feelings; 
although deceived over and over again in those whom she 
had sought to benefit, with that love which is so rare, so 
exquisitely beautiful, that we in this base and selfish earth 
are in truth not worthy of it, she persisted in believing 
still, sometimes proving herself thereby wiser than those 
who were wont tenderly to laugh over her fond creduhty. 


22 


FRAN^CIS. 


It was not difficult to touch Aunt Sophy’s feelings ; and 
the account which Eose gave of the young mechanic’s 
hard-working life and taste for study, together with the 
assurance that he did not look at all strong, and the in- 
formation which had called forth the jeers of her brother 
concerning his widowed mother, awoke her fullest interest 
and sympathy. She was struck with his politeness — ‘‘so 
much more than anything one could expect from a young 
fellow in that rank of life.” She was much impressed in 
his favor by his refusal of the offered shilling. Alto- 
gether, a more congenial listener could not have been 
found. Aunt Sophy quite agreed with her niece that it 
would be very nice if they could do something for him. 

“Those quiet, steady young men really deserve some 
encouragement,” she said ; and the two kind, simple hearts 
set to work to devise means for encouraging the deserving 
young mechanic, Francis. 

“ I am going to lend him some books. Aunty ; he said 
he was very fond of reading. And now I am rather at a 
loss what to choose. Do suggest some.” 

“ There are the ‘ Good Stories,’ dear ; wouldn’t he like 
them, or the ‘ Parish Magazine ’ ? or, if you go into the 
study, you will find the last two numbers of the ‘ British 
Workman.’” 

“ I don’t think I will take him the ‘British Workman,’ 
Aunty,” said Eose, with a little deliberation. “ Somehow, 
I think that the name might set him against it. If there 
were a magazine called the ‘Squire’s Daughter,’ I am 
sure that I should object to having it lent to me; and I 
never would look into the ‘ Girl’s Own Paper,’ simply on 
account of its name, and because I am a girl.” 

“Perhaps everybody is not so perverse as a certain 
young lady of my acquaintance ; ” and the genial face of 
Parson Caldicott looked in at the window. 

“ That is right. Uncle John ; you are just the person I 


AK OBJECT FOR PHILANTHROPY. 


23 


want to consult! We are talking about books for a very 
intelligent, entirely self-educated working boy, and I do 
not know exactly what to choose.” 

new protege of yours? Where have you picked 
him up, my little philanthropist? ” 

And then the whole story had to be told over again, 
which resulted in a very hearty and long-continued laugh 
from Uncle John, and in his taking Eose into the study, 
where they selected, after some deliberations, Smiles on 
“Self-Help,” Macaulay’s “Lays of Ancient Eome,” “Al- 
ton Locke” — at which Uncle John demurred a little, hut 
was overruled by his niece — and “Adam Bede.” 

“ There is no use giving him goody-goody books, you 
see. Aunty — to begin with, at any rate,” said Eose ; for 
Mrs. Caldicott was loth to leave out the bound number of 
the ‘‘Parish Magazine,” which contained, as she justly 
observed, so much that was attractive to young people, 
as well as what was instructive and excellent. 

“Unless he is very nice indeed, I am afraid he would 
not read them, and one wants to elevate their tastes as 
well as simply to do them good, doesn’t one ? ” 

So the books which were to elevate Francis’ tastes were 
taken away, and in the afternoon found their way out in 
the pony-carriage to Alderley farm. 

That evening the following letter was written to Geof- 
frey: 

“ Marycross, Thursday, May 13. 

“ Dearest Geoffrey, — I am writing to you again this 
evening, for two reasons: first, because of your letter, 
received this morning, crossing mine, for which many 
thanks ; and, secondly, because I have some more to tell 
you about that young mechanic of whom I wrote you in 
my last, in whom I know you will be as much interested 
as I am myself. I went over this afternoon to return 


u 


FRANCIS. 


Mrs. Webster’s things, and to take him some books” 
[mentioning the names]. “Fancy, he says that he had 
read them all except one, but he should be very glad to 
go through them again. He tells me that his education 
was very incomplete, owing to his having to go to work 
so young; actually, he never passed the fourth standard 
before he left school, and now of course he has only the 
evenings to study in. He is very humble about his attain- 
ments. He reads a good deal— poetry, fiction, solid books, 
everything — and appreciates Euskin and Carlyle ; but he 
says that he writes very badly, and cannot spell a bit. I 
told him about Uncle John’s classes for the village lads, 
but he did not seem to think it possible for him to come 
over for them, though I explained that there need not be 
any difficulty about his not belonging to this parish ; and 
there does not appear to be any night-school at Abbot- 
stoke — at least he said that he had never heard of any. 
He seemed very much pleased when I said I should like 
to help him in his studies — quite caught at the idea, in 
fact; and I have arranged to give him a little instruction 
twice a week, on my way back from the afternoon classes 
we have started at the brickfields. Francis seemed very 
anxious to learn some geology, so we are going to begin 
with that; and if he really seems to require it, I shall 
give him dictation and some copies to write at home. 
The more I see of the boy, the more I am struck with the 
natural grace and refinement of his manners ; the word 
high-bred is the only one which accurately describes them. 
His mother must, I am sure, be an exceptional woman ; I 
should like very much to do something for her — but she 
does not seem to be delicate, so one cannot send her soup 
and jelly. I think of crocheting her a shawl. As Aunt 
Sophy says, they must be very badly off with such a large 
family, depending mainly, I suppose, upon her exertions; 
for none of his sisters are in service, Francis tells me, and 


TEACHER AKD SCHOLAR. 


25 


his eldest brother has no occupation. Yet there is a great 
deal of independence about him, too, which one likes. It 
is Grabbers ‘ noble passion, misnamed pride, ^ I think — 
which is, of course, a splendid thing, and just what one 
wishes to encourage. Father had a letter from Aunt 
Emily this morning; she says that Molly is decidedly bet- 
ter, I am glad to say. Best love from us all. 

Your affectionate sister, 

"" Squirrel. 

“ P. S. — Francis says that he was working in London 
for two years before I came to AbbotstOke, and he used to 
go to the I^ational Gallery often, and to the ‘ Saturday 
pops,"* as you call them — I suppose to the shilling seats 
near the door. It is a shame to say that classical music 
cannot be appreciated by the common herd. Not that 
this boy can be regarded as the type of the common herd, 
of course ; still, he is a member of the lower orders, and I 
have no doubt there are plenty more like him, with the 
same cultivated tastes and appreciation of what is beauti- 
ful, if only we were to come across them. 

Yours, S.’^ 


CHAPTER III. 

TEACHER AND SCHOLAR. 

So may I, by this device, at least 

Have leave and leisure to make love to her 

And unsuspected court her by myself. 

Taming of the Shrew, i. 2. 

Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. 

Midsummer Night's Dream, i. 2. 

There had been some difficulties in the way of Francis’ 
lessons with Eose — difficulties, however, which her strong 
desire to help him, and his still stronger desire thus to be 


26 


FEANCIS. 


helped, enabled them at length to overcome. The time 
had first to be fixed upon, and required to be fitted in be- 
tween the ending of the Brickfield class and the hour at 
which Kose would have to dress for dinner; but Francis 
willingly agreed to defer his tea, and promised to meet his 
teacher at half-past five, which would give them three- 
quarters of an hour for their lesson. 

The place was also hard to settle. From motives ob- 
vious enough to the reader, although not equally so to 
Rose, Francis had a hundred good reasons why their 
meetings should not take place at the farm. Mrs. Web- 
ster often had friends dropping in about that time of day, 
he said, and he would not like her to be inconvenienced ; 
the lane was eminently calculated to destroy the springs 
of a pony-carriage ; they might save quite a quarter of an 
hour if some rendezvous could be arranged near the direct 
road to Marycross. At last Rose thought of a cottage oc- 
cupied by an old woman of whom she was especially fond, 
and it was decided that Mrs. Coplestone’s little parlor 
would serve them admirably as a class-room. 

Punctually at half-past five. Rose, having walked from 
the Brickfields, and Francis, having sped at a swifter 
pace from Abbotstoke to the farm and thence to the cot- 
tage, met at its gate, where he greeted her with a graceful 
and becoming deference. They went into the cottage 
together, and were met with a' smiling face by Mrs. Co- 
plestone, a woman of the old-fashioned type of peasant 
seldom met with now — a thrifty, orderly, warm-hearted, 
yet shrewd old dame, with a round rosy face encircled by 
a spotless white cap and hair like to driven snow. Rose 
had plenty to ask her about the husband lying ill upstairs, 
and the little grandchildren, rosy-faced as she, who hid 
behind her apron, peeping out shyly to look at the visitors. 
She had»brought some tobacco and fiannel for the old man, 
and a bright picture-book for the children, and stood 


TEACHER AND SCHOLAR. 


27 


chatting away, as perfectly at home here, as thoroughly 
cognizant of all the little details of cottage life, as though 
she herself had never known any other; while Francis 
stood silent, yet marking with interest this new trait in 
his lady-lovers character. 

Kose did not keep him waiting very long, however ; from 
the tidy kitchen, with its red-brick floor, small but cheerful 
fire, with a kettle singing on the hob and a cat playing 
with her kittens in front of it, they went into the little 
parlor, which was equally neat and well-kept. A large, 
old-fashioned clock ticked loudly against the wall, a round- 
faced moon at the top, not unlike Mrs. Ooplestone herself 
in features, showing by its present position the present 
phase of the lunar month ; a portrait of The Kev. Will- 
iam Elias rr hung over the chimney-piece, and opposite it 
a wonderful sampler worked by the good woman’s daugh- 
ter, with impossible men walking into an equally impossi- 
ble house under the shade of still more impossible trees, 

! and flowers most impossible of all springing up out of 
j space, as it is at present correct for flowers to be and to 
^ do, and beneath the following lines, peculiarly appropri- 
ji ately chosen to be inscribed by a child of eight : 

I Seize, mortal, seize the transient hour, 

i Improve each moment as it flies, 

' Life’s a short summer, man a flower, 

He dies, alas I how soon he dies 1 * 

’ The floor was well scrubbed and newly sanded, and there 
' was a fresh and wholesome smell about the room which 
, went well with its cheerful, homely aspect. 

I Eose and her pupil seated themselves on two of the 
; cane-bottomed chairs and began their lesson, which pro- 
ceeded without many interruptions. Mrs. Ooplestone 
passed through once or twice on her way to the back gar- 


* A fact. 


28 


FRANCIS. 


den, and the grandchildren, growing bolder, ventured oc- 
casionally to come and look at them ; but otherwise they 
were not molested, except by the visit of a staid old 
goose, who walked in, saw they were busy, and discreetly 
walked out again. 

Eose’s stock, of scientific knowledge was unusually large 
for a woman, and one of her age. Almost from babyhood 
she had been instructed in these subjects by her father, 
who was pleased to see his own special aptitude inherited 
by this, the only one, as it happened of his children. Eose 
was also a born teacher, and after her first shyness had 
worn off she found it no unpleasant task instructing this 
old but singularly docile pupil. She had only taught 
girls and young boys during the six months past which 
had witnessed her ardent labors among the people. She 
had heard that men were, as a rule, more tractable as well 
as more intelligent pupils ; but she had never expected to 
find all this difference between the rough-headed urchins 
who so sorely tried her patience, and one who had grown 
to riper years. There was no difficulty whatever in keep- 
ing Francis’ attention as, beginning with that formation 
which was at hand, and describing the long centuries of 
living and dying of the myriads of rhizopods whose minute 
shells constitute the chalk, and telling him how the same 
work was now going on in large portions of the Atlantic, 
with certain elementary instruction on the subject of 
weathering ” and of different effects of water, she made 
an introduction to the study of geology, interesting him, 
as she hoped, in the subject. Yes, he certainly was a de- 
lightful pupil ! no need to repeat a sentence that she had 
spoken, no necessity to restrain his eyes from wandering ; 
the intelligence of his answers and remarks delighted her, 
and his submissive manner contrasted very pleasantly with 
those of the village boys she was in the habit of instruct- 
ing. And then, he was so grateful 1 A knowledge of 


TEACHER AND SCHOLAR. 


29 


geology would, he said, be of the greatest use to him in 
engineering ; he had long wished to learn something of 
it, and was most thankful for having, at last, the oppor- 
tunity. He was quite ready, at Bose's suggestion, to 
make out a table of geological formations, the details of 
which should be filled in as he advanced in his studies, 
and he promised to write out all he could remember of 
what she had taught him that day. This, she remarked, 

. would be a good exercise for him, and enable her to help 
him in correcting his spelling. 

think the pony-carriage must be waiting for me 
now,” said Bose, as she took out her watch at the end of 
the lesson — it was to meet her in the road to avoid a bit 
of stony lane. I have some books for you there, though 
I never thought you would have finished these so soon.” 

I read quickly,” he answered ; especially when I get 
hold of anything I particularly like.” 

' And then they talked over the works in question, find- 
mg their ideas the same on many points. 

When they reached the place where the pony-carriage 
ought to have been, there were a few minutes to wait 
before it appeared. 

“ Will you tell me what the air was that I heard you 
whistling the other day ? ” Bose asked, partly for some- 
thing to say to the-boy, for their literary conversation had 
been broken up in crossing the last stile — partly because 
it had ever since been persistently ringing in her ears. 

‘‘When I met you at the — water? Let me see, wasn't 
it an air from ‘ Carmen ' ? I had just heard the opera the 
night before, and I remember I was trying it over.” 

“ You have German bands, then, at Abbotstoke, I sup- 
pose ? ” 

• << — hurdy-gurdies ! ” he replied, very quickly correct- 
ing his lapsis. “ You know they get all the opera tunes, 
i Was it this ? ” And Francis began to whistle ‘ ‘ II Toreador:^ 


30 


FEANCIS. 


He whistled beautifully, every note true, clear, and dis- 
tinct, with a peculiar sweetness of tone which might have 
awoke the envy of a thrush. ' 

Kose admired, and, as was her wont, admired openly. 

You whistle very well,” she said. 

‘^It is my one accomplishment; the only way of pro- 
ducing music open to us of the poorer classes — except the 
concertina,” he added, gravely — so gravely that Kose 
thought lit to explain how far preferable she considered j 
the use of the powers derived from nature, as he had just 
displayed them, to tunes played on an instrument which, 
it occurred to her, he might be regretting his pecuniary 
inability to purchase. 

Francis was on the point of saying that he believed 
concertinas and trades’ unions had been invented in the 
same day, and, quoting Carlyle, by the same agency ; but 
he thought the remark might startle Rose, as it undoubt- 
edly would have done, so he simply said : 
prefer whistling, too.” 

Then, the pony-carriage having driven up, he put in the 
packet of books which he had brought back, taking the 
new supply from his teacher, and, with his usual dignified 
bow, returned her ‘^good evening,” and betook himself to 
the farm, where he found Mrs. Webster wondering why he 
had rushed off without waiting for his tea. 

I kept it hot on the hob for you, sir,” she said, until 
six o’clock, and then I poured it away, and am making 
you some fresh. You had better take your supper a little 
later than usual, hadn’t you — or else you will have no 
appetite for it ? ” 

Francis was one of those people whom everybody found 
it very difiicult not to spoil, and certainly, as much as lay 
in her power, Mrs. Webster did spoil him. His tastes and 
convenience were consulted before those of any one else 
in the house. Whoever might be kept waiting, Mr. Greye 


TEACHEE AND SCHOLAR. 


31 


never was, and she spent a quite undue amount of time 
and thought on providing him with little luxuries, ‘^just 
to tempt him to eat something, she would say, more 
than what would barely keep a mouse alive.’"’ She looked 
after him and cared for him as though she had been his 
mother, kept his places tidy and his clothes in order, and 
did for him a hundred little services, hardly noticeable, 
but such as very materially added to the young man’s com- 
fort. 

I Francis was, it must be acknowledged, a very desirable 
I lodger ; he was well-off, paid liberally, and never haggled 
I over things ; while, quiet in his own habits as any old maid, 
I he did not object, as others had done, to the noise of the 
1 children, and his kindness to the crippled Fred touched 
I even the farmer’s impartial heart. 

! ‘‘He has been delicate himself, poor young gentleman 
I — that’s what it is,” Mrs. Webster used to say, as she 
j watched Francis lifting the small figure of the deformed 
boy, that he might put his finger into the thrush’s nest 
I and feel her five warm eggs, or clambering nimbly up the 
; old bit of ivy-covered wall which shut off the farm garden 
: from the orchard, to recover the child’s ball, which had 
lodged on the top, seven feet out of his reach. And when 
Something had gone wrong with the engine that worked 
I the threshing-machine, Francis had tendered his services 
to Webster in finding out where the mischief lay, and he 
had done so, and put the whole thing to rights, saving the 
I farmer a good many pounds thereby. 

I Any one looking in at Francis on that pleasant May 
I evening, as he leaned back resting his weary limbs on the 
jmost comfortable of arm-chairs, and looking out over the 
i lovely view before him, while the sweet scent from the 
! fresh-mown hay and from the many flowers below, of 
I which the evening air was full, was wafted in through the 
^lopen bow-window, might have thought the compassion 


32 


FEANCIS. 


Kose was continually bestowing on him in her gentle 
heart, for the poor surroundings and many hardships of 
what she supposed was his life, to be a little misplaced. 
The room was a particularly pretty one, for Francis, when 
he resolved to take up his abode for some months at the 
farm-house, had brought his own furniture and aesthetic 
belongings — his books, his pictures, the various specimens 
of needle-work which his mother and sisters and one or 
two favorite cousins had done for him. He had even 
caused the room to be newly papered in a lovely terra-cotta 
shade. There was a real wooden dado, ready made, which 
it would have been a sin to have wasted, and that was 
painted to accord with the curtains and walls. Francis 
was clever with his hands, and the book-shelves carved with 
little dragons’ heads, and the brackets on which stood 
bits of old china and painted plaques, as well as the small 
table before him, were of his own workmanship. Upon 
the table stood a quaint old silver teapot, sugar-basin, and 
cream- jug, the last filled with Mrs. Webster’s richest 
cream, and a plate of wafer-like home-made bread and 
butter, the plate and cup and saucer that stood beside it 
being of the pretty old-fashioned china which had been an 
heirloom from Mrs. Webster’s grandmother, of which no 
previous lodger had been thought worthy. Some king- 
cups stood by in a yellow jar. 

In his artistically furnished room, his refined surround- 
ings, and all the pretty things about him, Francis found a 
positive rest after the labor and heat of his daily toil, 
that refreshment in the sight of beautiful objects which is, 
to those who have the love thereof implanted in their 
hearts, a very real and powerful influence, subtle as it may 
be and hard to define. The life upon which the boy had 
just entered was undoubtedly a trying one, trying alike to 
body, soul, and spirit, and he had entered upon it none too 
well fortified, at least from a physical point of view. Francis , 


TEACHER AND SCHOLAR. 


33 


had always been a delicate boy, and at the end of the two 
years just completed which he had spent at the school for 
engineering, the strain imposed upon him by the continued 
i over-work which, in spite of all entreaties, he had insisted 
on doing, could not but make itself felt. He had got what 
he was striving for, however, a first-class certificate, and a 
month of perfect rest and simple enjoyment of existence 
had, as he liked to imagine, made him as strong as any of 
his brothers. Still, he was advised by his doctor to have 
his quarters in the country during the summer, to take 
exercise and be as much as possible in the open air; to all 
of which, principally out of consideration for the wishes 
of his mother, Francis had agreed. He had soon found out 
the wisdom of this counsel, and since the walk to and from 
Abbotstoke was rather a pleasure than otherwise at this 
delightful season, he experienced no further inconvenience 
from the arrangement than was involved in not being able 
to go up to town so frequently as he would otherwise have 
done on account of the distance from the station. His 
friends — of whom he had plenty in London, although he 
had not yet begun to make acquaintances in the neighbor- 
hood of Abbotstoke — ran down to see him occasionally 
and enliven his solitude. The work at Marsden's was, it is 
Itrue, very hard, involving a good deal of exertion and self- 
denial, and the aspect of life there presented to him in 
many respects sufficiently revolting: here was a grand 
opportunity for the study of human nature, indeed, but it 
iwas a painful and discouraging study. The heart of 
Francis was, however, so entirely in his occupation, that 
spite of all this the work had for him an absorbing attrac- 
tion ; and now that a new light was beginning to shine on 
his existence, life seemed to him a brighter thing than, in 
his frequently occurring fits of somewhat morbid depres- 
sion brought on by ill-health and some other adverse cir- 
pumstances, he could have even imagined to himself. As he 
3 


34 


FEAKCIS. 


leaned back in his chair this evening, the soft air fanning 
his forehead, and his eyes resting on the far-stretchiaj 
expanse of country ending in' an undulating blue lini 
against the crimson of the western sky, his thoughts weM 
very full of Kose : they had been so, indeed, since the dal 
when first they met ; the fair face, with its delicate coloft| 
ing and finely cut features, and the dark soft eyes whichl 
looked above all things so good and true, the continual! 
change of expression from intent to dreamy, from deeply- 
serious to gay and smiling, the perfect absence of self-J 
consciousness which rendered tenfold more powerful thej 
charm of all, had been ever since that evening constantly 
present in his mind; and by this time, having seen her| 
and held converse with her three times, he was perfectly j 
conscious that the place Kose held with him was not only' 
in his head but in his heart. Her naivete, her freshness, 
the combination she presented of child-like simplicity with 
a thoughtfulness and a knowledge quite beyond her years, 
had for him an unspeakable charm. He had met other 
unconventional girls and had not liked them — the Greyes 
being, as a family, exclusive, and with a righteous horror 
of anything that was not precisely comme il faut, so that 
he always fought shy of everything and everybody be did 
not consider quite good form."" But Kose"s unconven- 
tionality was not at all of the usual type: it was not a 
rebellion against the restraints of society ; it was only the 
simplicity of a girl who had never known these restraints 
at all. Although Francis"s own views were very far 
indeed from socialistic, Rose’s ideas upon the subject 
interested him greatly, though they sometimes amused 
him. Indeed, he had much cause to thank them, as but 
for her enthusiastic yearnings for the raising of the 
masses, had she still been walking the beaten tracks of 
young ladyhood in which she had gone unquestioningly ,4 
till less than a year ago, their first meeting, at the ditch, 


TEACHER AND SCHOLAR. 


35 


would probably have been their last. This evening, as he 
I thought of Rose, he congratulated himself on the happy 
I chance which had led her to mistake him for a peasant, 
and the philanthropy which had actuated her, so that he 
now had the opportunity of meeting her twice in the 
; week ill a novel but by no means unpleasant way, unmo- 
I lested by chaperones and free from all conventional tram- 
i mels. It was a false position in which they stood to each 
' other, of course, which was decidedly to be regretted, but 
I on the other hand it was a very delightful one. Had she 

■ met him as an ordinary young man in society. Rose would 
^ probably hardly have noticed Francis at all, would cer- 

■ tainly never have given herself any trouble about him ; 
‘whereas now, in her desire to encourage this self-educated 
nature^’s gentleman, who aroused her warmest interest and 
delighted her by proving in himself the truth of her 
cherished theories of intellectual equality, she felt no pains 
could be better bestowed than on the effort to help and 
cheer him on. 

Francis thought for a little, whistling as he did so, half 
unconsciously, the air from Carmen Rose had admired; 
then he took pen and paper, and began to write down, 
according to the directions of his teacher, all he could 
remember of her instructions that afternoon. The worst 
of it was that he remembered so much ! It would have 
taken him hours, days, to commit it all to paper ; and as 
he wrote, trying to express the things she had said in her 
own picturesque language, he found not only that the task 
was difficult, but that the picture it brought before him 
was a very distracting one. What cared he about globe- 
germae and radistaria — of whose names, by the way, he 
made sad havoc — for limestone and red under-clay ? The 
pretty lips which told him of these things, the small white 
teeth that showed between, the curves and dimples about 
mer mouth as Rose smiled approval of his answers, had, it 


36 


FRAKCIS. 


is to be feared, a greater attraction for Francis than all 
the erudition he might acquire under the auspices of his 
new instructress. Still, he must try to please her, and to 
this end he sat up half the night, causing good Mrs. Web- 
ster to shake her head sadly upon her pillow as, waking 
at 2 A. M., she heard the doors of her lodger's sitting-room 
and bedroom in turn quietly open and shut. “ He is wear- 
ing himself out, poor young gentleman," she said to her- 
self. ‘‘We sha'n't have him with us long, it's my opinion ; " 
which melancholy conclusion resulted the next day in 
Francis receiving one of the affectionate scoldings which 
the good woman took it upon herself to administer when 
she considered that he required them. 

“I'm a mother myself," she ended, “and what would 
your own mother say to you, or to me rather, if you were 
carried home to her some day in your coffin ? " Whereat 
Francis laughed, and promised to be content with the 
short candle-end which was all, his landlady informed him, 
that she was going to allow him that night. 

“Is it supposed to be a sign of aristocratic descent not 
being able to pronounce one's r’s ? " Eose inquired of her 
brother one day about this time. 

“ It is a sign that a fellow is a conceited ass," was Philip's 
laconic answer ; and his sister did not say anything further. 

The lessons with Francis had been mentioned casually 
to Mr. Caldicott, who took no great notice of the informa- 
tion, being too well accustomed to hearing of some new 
effort on the part of his daughter for instructing, amusing, 
or otherwise ameliorating the lot of her poorer neighbors 
for some distance round. Philip had overheard, and occa- 
sionally chaffed Eose in a way of which she did not at all 
approve, about her protege. 

“Didn't I tell you that he always wears a clean jacket 
now ? " she said, indignantly, in answer to some of his 
sneers. 


TEACHER AHD SCHOLAR, 


37 


‘‘Good gracious, he is coming on! You are raising 
him, Squirrel, decidedly raising him I Does he wash his 
hands and face too, and oil his hair? There is half a pot 
of pomatum on my washstand you can give him, if you 
like — or perhaps he prefers engine-grease ? I never believe 
in the real reformation of your boys until they take to 
thoroughly oiling their hair.’’ 

Eose threw a cushion at her brother, and then said : 

“Francis doesn’t oil his hair, and he does wash his 
hands.” 

“And face? ” 

“ And face, as he always did, and he does not require 
any raising or refining. His manners are infinitely supe- 
I rior to yours.” 

I “ I have no doubt of it. He pulls his forelock, of course, 

' and answers ‘Yes, Miss,’ when you speak to him. But if 
; he does not require raising. Squirrel, and is, as you told 
me the other day, so particularly well-read, what is the 
object of your giving him lessons? — that is what I want to 
know. You must look out, father ” — half arousing from 
' his studies Mr. Caldicott, who was poring over a new work 
on entomology — “ or we shall wake up some fine morning 
and find that Eose is o’er the borders and away, the bride 
of this ‘ base mechanical ! ’ ” 

At the parsonage, at any rate, Eose was not laughed to 
scorn. Her uncle held it very good of her to take so much 
trouble with a boy who had really no claims whatever upon 
her time, while he thought the clergyman of the parish in 
which he lived would have been the proper person to exert 
himself about him. Mrs. Caldicott continued kindly in- 
terested in the poor orphan, and was ever sympathetic, 
though she always a little regretted that Francis could not 
I be amalgamated with the brick-field classes. 


38 


FRANCIS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

COTTAGE INDUSTRIES. 

Thy love did read by rote and could not spell. 

Borneo and Juliet, ii. 3. 

He was a gentleman on whom I built an absolute trust. 

Macbeth, i. 4. 

You do not write so very badly ; only you ought to 
make your letters larger, and not let them slope so much ; 
and you press too hard with your pen at the bottom, in- 
stead of making the thick stroke, if you have any, come 
at the proper side ; and your capitals are rather scriggly, 
aren’t they ? Look at this 

Such was Kose’s comment on the work of her pupil 
after, just as a good teacher finding out all there was to 
commend, and praising highly the excellent powers of 
memory which he had displayed, and the correctness, for 
the most part, of his style. 

^^And as to your spelling,” she went on — ^^it seems to 
me that your mistakes come more from — not thinking ” — 
she was loth to use the severer term carelessness — than 
anything else. That is, in your little words; in the 
longer ones, you must think how they are built up. You 
never studied Latin, I suppose ?” 

“A little.” 

‘^Ah, then, that ought to help you. Take this word, 
for instance — illiterate ; what do you suppose that this il 
used originally to be ? ” 

And Eose proceeded to give her pupil a lesson on the 
subject of assimilation and dissimilation, making him cite 


f 

I COTTAGE lOTUSTKIES. 39 

I examples of both in the most conscientious and instructive 
manner. 

It is to be hoped that Francis profited thereby. He 
remarked at the end ; I told you that I could not spell ; 
we none of us can.” 

i He was thinking of his family, with whom eccentric 
I orthography was one of the hereditary failings to which, 
as such, Francis was, to say the least of it, indifferent — it 
may be even a little proud, as he certainly was on the 
same grounds of his defective r^s. 

Eose thought that he alluded to the poorer classes, and 
agreed with him that it was a curious thing that unedu- 
cated people, when able to read with perfect fiuency, and 
accustomed to making considerable use of books, were 
often at a great loss when called upon to express their 
thoughts in writing, and in their spelling frequently made 
the most ludicrous mistakes. 

I do not mean that you come exactly under that head,” 
she added, fearing that Francis might feel hurt. You 
have taught yourself a great deal — it astonishes me how 
. much — and one could certainly not call you uneducated. 
Still, as you say, your writing lays a good deal behind 
your reading, and I think it is for want of practice.” 

She then suggested several useful exercises, and recom- 
mended for the present the aid of a dictionary. At the 
: end of the lesson, Eose referred to what they had been 
! going through at the beginning. 

^^You know the meaning of the words literate’ and 
^ illiterate ^ ? ” 

The first is what you are, and the other is what I am,” 
Francis answered, promptly. What we of the lower 
orders are, I mean,” he added, seeing that Eose looked 
surprised. 

‘^What you will not long remain, at any rate, I hope,” 
she replied, with great earnestness. There is no reason 


40 


FEAKCIS. 


that you should not share our culture, even if the com- 
munistic idea of an equal division of property is imprac- 
ticable. I do not know that it is so, but of course, as 
things are now, and while individual property exists, there 
is always the unanswerable argument that, if the whole 
world were evenly parcelled out to-day, ten years hence 
the larger portions of it would be in the hands of the 
stronger and better men ; and those who are improvident, 
good-for-nothing people would have parted with their own 
share to them, and become servants or beggars again.’"’ 

^^The fittest must survive; it is the law that rules the 
earth.” 

‘^Yes; but we are only just beginning to wake up to 
what is meant by the fittest ; not those who are well-born, 
not those who have inherited money or large estates, but 
the good, the wise, the men of intellect and strength of 
character^ — ^yes, and the women, too! Those are the ones 
who are and ought to survive.” 

The fire of enthusiasm lit up her young face. 

Those men and women you will almost invariably find 
among the higher classes, though,” was Francis’s answer. 

Think of the character of the ordinary British mechanic. 
Well, there isThe man who takes brandy neat at all hours 
of the day, and gets drunk every evening ; there are plenty 
of that type. Then there is the dirty, untidy man, who 
never washes — in fact despises cleanliness — and also swears 
all manner of low oaths ; that is not an uncommon kind. 
As a rule, they are all discontented and slovenly — men 
who never forget an injury and never remember a kind- 
ness— and they really prefer doing their work badly to 
doing it well.” 

But you are not all like that I ” exclaimed Eose. 

^'Oh, of course there are some exceptions; there are 
nice intelligent men and lads. There was one boy, for 
instance, who worked in the same place as myself in Lon- 


COTTAGE INDUSTRIES. 


41 


don, who reads books and tries to speak properly. I lent 
him a lot of engineering books, and he must have studied 
them well, for I have asked him questions to see.” 

Rose was so much interested in this other self-educated 
boy, that she turned aside from her subject for a minute 
or two to ask Francis questions about him ; but she soon 
returned to it again. 

The difference is only a difference of education,” she 
said — ‘‘education in the widest sense of the word, I mean 
— nor simply book-learning. And it is our duty to give 
every advantage we possibly can to those in the rank be- 
neath us, that the many among them who might, with 
instruction, become our equals or superiors, may have the 
opportunity of doing as Nature intended that they should, 
and rise.” 

Francis gave a little deprecatory wriggle — a shudder 
down the backbone peculiar to himself, or, more correctly 
speaking, to his clan. Its meaning was, of course, lost 
upon Rose. 

“ You do not suppose,” she said, “ that because you are 
a simple mechanic, and have not birth or position, you 
are in any degree inferior to what is called a gentleman in 
the ordinary sense of the term ? Differences of rank there 
are — I suppose that there must be ; but you who have 
educated yourself, and read and thought as much as most 
of them have— perhaps more — are in reality their perfect 
equal.” 

“ Or shall be when I can spell, you mean,” he answered ; 
and Rose noticed something in his tone she did not quite 
understand. Had she, in her endeavor to encourage and 
console him, in any way unwittingly wounded Francis’s 
feelings ? 

“ A long line of ancestors is nothing,” she said, “abso- 
lutely nothing. The real distinctions between man and 
man have not anything whatever to do with birth.” 


42 


FEAI^CIS. 


should imagine,” said Francis, ^^that the knowledge' 
one belonged to a good old house, and had a name and 
family reputation to sustain, would be a strong incentive 
in the right direction. The feeling they call noblesse 
oblige would keep a man from doing anything that would 
disgrace him.” 

“ Do not imagine it for a moment,” Eose said, ear- 
nestly. You read history ; think of the men of good 
family one meets with there ; has it proved to them any 
deterrent from the greatest crimes, the most shameful 
and dishonorable proceedings ?” 

At least it might be made a very strong motive of 
action.” 

Not one that would hold, I think,” said Eose, after a 
moments thoughtful pause, against any prevailing pas- 
sion. I am sure ” — her voice lowered a little, and, wor- 
shipping the beauty of her face, Francis hardly noticed 
what she was saying, though her words came back to 
him afterwards — that until we know that temptation is 
stronger than we are, stronger than any power on earth 
that we can bring to bear against it, the whole foundation 
of our character is built on sand.” 

On reaching home that evening Eose found two letters 
awaiting her, the first from Lady Lester, which ran as 
follows : 

dear Eose,— You will be glad to hear that 
Molly is almost well again. She must remain abroad for 
the present, the doctors say, but since your Aunt Kather- 
ine will be here to have charge of the children, and I have 
found a capital little nursery-governess to look after them, 
there is nothing to detain me at Cannes, and I intend 
leaving for England next Thursday. The house in Crom- 
well Gardens can be got ready for us in a day or two. We 
shall only come in for the fag-end of the season, to be 


COTTAGE INDUSTRIES. 


43 


sure, but that is better than nothing, and I cannot miss 
the opportunity of introducing you this year — it would be 
too great a disappointment for us both. Write to Mme. 
Seline, 361 Kegent Street, directly about your dresses. 
She makes them artistically, and I remember that style 
always suited you.” [Here followed an alarming list, as 
it seemed to Eose, of the garments she was likely to re- 
quire.] Tell her you must have everything before the 
15th, and then there is a possibility of your getting some 
of them by the 20th, which is about the time I expect to 
be in town and ready for you. You must get Philip to 
teach you the new valse, and I do hope, my dear child, 
you will be careful about your complexion. Send for 
some of Smithson’s Kalyvedor, and use it at nights, if you 
find yourself getting freckled. Love and kisses from all 
the children. 

Your affectionate aunt, 

“Emily Lester.” 

The second letter was from G-eoffrey Caldicott. It con- 
tained, amongst other items, the following passage : How 
is your intelligent young mechanic getting on ? I hope 
he will not turn out a humbug. You can have any of my 
books you like to lend him except ”— then came the names 
of certain works more valuable than the rest. It does 
not much matter about the others whether he returns 
them or not.” 

These words woke Rose’s righteous indignation. The 
insult to her protege in the implied distrust of his honesty 
was very objectionable, and the suggestion that he might 
be in some way misleading her yet more annoying. 

“ Francis a humbug ! ” she exclaimed to herself in 
wrathful enthusiasm. ‘'If any one ever was true on 
earth, Francis is: one sees it written in his face; one 
could not speak to him for five minutes without knowing 


44 


FEANCIS. 


that he can be relied on. There is no one, no one that I 
have ever met, that I would trust more completely than I 
do that boy.^'’ 

And yet Francis was a humbug ! 

For the next few weeks preparations went on busily for 
Eose’s departure for London. Whatever may have once 
been her feelings, it is certain that she was now very far 
from eager to make her dehut that year in society. And* 
had anything prevented Lady Lester’s return to England 
before the end of the London season, she would have felt 
it rather a reprieve than otherwise. 

So she told Francis Greye when she met him for the 
last time but one to give her instructions. 

I am very sorry to leave just now,” she said ; the 
country is so lovely when the wild roses and honeysuckle 
are out, and the hay cut, and one has these long delicious 
evenings. I know that I shall not be half so happy in 
London as here in the midst of Nature when she is’ at her 
very loveliest,” 

And Kose sighed, and looked really very sad. She felt 
so, indeed, as she thought of the exquisite beauty, the 
simple country delights, which she was leaving behind ; 
and of her classes, guilds, and the poor and sick folk 
whom she was about to give over to the care of others. 
She was really and honestly quite unaware that another 
attraction of a stronger and more irresistible nature was 
there at her heart, tying it with strong cords to her quiet 
country home. She hardly knew how much she looked 
forward to, how thoroughly she enjoyed, the hours spent 
with Francis in Mrs. Coplestone’s little sanded parlor; 
or, if she did, imagined it to be the natural pleasure of a 
teacher in an intelligent and appreciative pupil, and knew 
not that she was basking in the sunshine of a boy’s first 
love. She knew that Francis was devoted to her, of course ; 
he never was at any pains to hide the fact. He would 


COTTAGE INEUSTEIES. 


45 


have done anything for her in the world, and he did for 
her anything and everything that he could. He had trav- 
ersed the country far and wide in search of the bee-orchises 
she had regretted that she could never find, and brought 
hack in triumph a bunch of this and other rare varieties 
of the same tribe which grew who shall say how many 
miles from Abbotstoke. He had got water-lilies for her, 
too, from a lake at an equal distance in a nearly opposite 
direction. Her private boudoir was adorned with various 
evidences of his skill in wood-carving. 

It turned out that the shops at Abbotstoke produced 
wares of all kinds absolutely equal to those of Bond Street. 
Ho one in the neighborhood had ever made this important 
discovery ; but when Eose had any commissions to be done, 
Francis knew where to go, and found, without the least 
difficully, liberty silk handkerchiefs of exquisite texture 
and hue, silks in every aesthetic shade for art work, the 
newest books warm from the press, and the most delicious 
of Paris bon-bons. And Eose not for one little moment sus- 
pected him, not even when some friends, encouraged by 
her glowing accounts, went themselves to do a day^s shop- 
ping in Abbotstoke and came home disgusted and in the 
least amiable of tempers, to reproach her, after spending a 
whole afternoon in that dirty, hot, abominable town, and 
not being able to find a single thing they went there for. 

^^How long do you expect to be away?” asked Francis, 
in a melancholy tone. 

About six weeks or two months.” 

‘^In London ? Sometimes, just occasionally, I go there. 
Do you think we are likely to meet ? ” 

Eose did not think it likely, unless Francis came to her 
aunt’s house, of which she feared Lady Lester might not 
approve, and she hesitated for a moment. 

You would not speak to me, I suppose,” he said, if 
we did ? ” 


46 


FEANCIS. 


Again she did not qnite catch the meaning of his ex- 
pression; again she feared he might be hurt. 

Of course, I shall always take an interest in you,^^ she 
said, kindly. Why should I not speak to you in London 
as much as here ? Only I fancy there that my time will 
be very much taken up, and I suppose you are hardly likely 
to be in the same part of London that I shall be. But I 
shall probably be at home again for a little while in the 
autumn.^^ 

Only for a little while ? 

I think so. When the London season is over, I am 
going to Southsea or the Isle of Wight with my aunt, and 
she wants me to go abroad with her for the winter.” 

Francis looked very pensive. This, then, was the end 
of their present delightful intercourse together. If they 
were to meet again in the future, it must be upon differ- 
ent terms. That Kose must some day be enlightened with 
regard to his own birth and position, he had of course 
seen clearly from the first, but he had delayed the evil day 
as long as might be, for some instinct told him that it 
would be an evil day for him when, in whatever manner 
he decided to do it, the real substance of his words must 
be, I have allowed you to be deceived in me.” The days 
were long past when he had imagined the disclosure might 
prove rather a pleasant surprise than otherwise to Rose. 
He feared the consequences now exceedingly, and resolved 
on this occasion, as he had done so often before, that as 
long as it were possible the happy delusion under which 
she labored should continue. 

As he looked at her to-day, Francis wondered to him- 
self whether Rose had not already guessed the state of his 
feelings towards her. Had he not shown it in a hundred 
ways ? Might she not have told it now ? In truth she 
might have done so as her eyes rested on his face which 
he then turned towards her, lit up with that strange tran- 


THE LAST LESSOK. 


47 


scendent beauty which shines on the countenance of a man 
when, purely, truly, and with his whole soul, he loves. 

But Kose’s eyes were not yet opened ; a strange thrill 
ran through her heart as she looked at him, but she did 
not understand its nature. She had never had a lover 
before, and it had never entered into her head to think of 
Francis Greye in that capacity. He looked up to her, he 
was devoted to her. So was it with her father, her elder 
brother, and, to a certain extent, with Philip, the old 
family servants and tenants, her friends among the poor. 
He was the best and most affectionate of all her pupils, 
that was all. Spite of her socialistic principles and theories 
of equality, such was the force of education and early habit 
of thought, that Eose would as soon have dreamt of fall- 
ing in love herself with the young Prince of Wales, as of 
Francis Greye, the humble mechanic, falling in love with 
her. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE LAST LESSON. 

It was a lover and his lass, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nomino. 

That o'er the green cornfield did pass. 

As You Like It, v. 3. 

Wheh Eose walked up to the cottage for the last lesson 
she was to give Francis, she found him awaiting her at the 
gate. 

You must not go in there,’^ he said ; Mrs. Coplestone 
has just told me the children have got the measles.^’ 

His countenance was melancholy. What was to be done ? 
There were no other estimable widows, or particularly esti- 
mable people of any kind, living within accessible distance, 
who would suddenly provide them with a school-room. 


48 


FRANCIS. 


The garden did not lend itself to such a purpose; they 
could hardly seat themselves there among the onions and 
cabbage-plants, and the pigs and the poultry. They stood 
on the moorland and looked round, vaguely searching for 
some way out of their difficulty. It would be too provok- 
ing to lose their last lesson together, the one which was to 
wind up the series. It was very warm still, for, though 
the sun had lost a little of its midday power, it fell in 
strong hot rays upon the chalk uplands, only mitigated by 
a fitful breeze, which bent the slight forms of the meagre 
grass-blades, and blew the hair about Eose^s forehead into 
an exquisite confusion. For miles round there stretched 
an expanse of gently undulating downs, with reaches of 
meadow-land and broken patches of wood — here a cottage, 
there a farm, and in the distance a slender church-spire, 
the chalk breaking out in white gleams amidst the green, 
a fair view of English country in all directions, save where 
the sky was polluted by a low mass of earth-born clouds, 
and below it lay the town of Ahbotstoke. Bees buzzed in 
the fiowers, which sprung up few and far between in the 
short, spare herbage. Swallows skimmed by and were 
gone, swift as those gleams of memory which fly unhidden 
and unexpected through our minds, and then are departed 
almost before we are aware of their presence. Just at their 
feet was a deep and narrow ravine, so deep that the tops of 
the high trees which grew there were only just visible from 
above at the distance of a hundred yards. 

Have you ever been down there asked Francis. ‘‘It 
is such a lovely place 

Eose knew most of the country round by heart, but, as 
it happened, she had never explored this glen, and she con- 
sented to do so now. The pathway leading down into it 
was very narrow and enclosed with thick bushes, which 
Francis held aside for his teacher as she passed, and it was 
so steep that one less accustomed than she to country ram- 


THE LAST LESSOH. 


49 


bles would have found some difficulty in making the de- 
scent. But once down there, what a fairy palace! The 
shade of the trees was so thick that scarcely a sunbeam 
could find its way in between the branches ; the breeze of 
the moorland was entirely shut out. All was a cool, green, 
motionless shade. The moss grew luxuriantly over fallen 
tree-trunks, and made soft beds for the wood-nymphs to 
‘ lie upon. Wood-sorrel opened its fragile flowers, and deli- 
cate orchises, white and mauve, and purple and green, 
sought refuge here, as in a quiet convent, from the glare 
• and bustle of the upper outside world. The stillness, the 
I coolness, the exquisite loveliness, gave to the place a kind 
1 of enchantment. 

j One almost feels as if one ought not to speak above a 
j whisper,” said Francis. 

: A quick, sympathetic glance met his ; for the moment 

j Kose forgot, as indeed she often momentarily did, the 
j dividing line and position of birth in the delightful con- 
sciousness that she had met with a kindred soul. 

I I have the same feeling,” she said. “ This is the kind 
! of place where I like to come and think alone.” 

I have always wanted to show it to you,” said he. 

Don’t you think ’’—respectfully — “ we might for this 
once have our lesson down here ? I have managed to work 
up a good deal since last time.” 

There seemed no especial reason that they should not, 
and Kose seated herself on one of the mossy stumps. 

“ This is delightful ! ” exclaimed Francis, as he threw 
himself down nn the mossy green sward at the feet of his 
teacher. If you knew what it is like coming here after 
a day’s work at Marsden’s, with the noise and heat and 
■grime of all sorts — such a rest!” and he heaved a long 
sigh of contentment. Then he added, in a lower tone, “ If 
seems like being in another world to me.” 

Yes, there is something in the stillness and solitary ‘ 
4 


50 


FRANCIS. 


loveliness of the place which makes one think of Paradise 
or the Garden of Eden. It is one of Nature’s monasteries. 
Do you know the ^ Christian Year ’ ? I often think of 
those ‘ purer sprights ’ who he imagines come by moon- 
light to delight in these lovely places which no human 
being is near to admire.” 

Yes, I know it, and the verses before that, about the 
budding wood and so on — all beautiful. It is a pretty 
idea,” he went on, ^^a kind of reply to the flowers that 
waste their sweetness on the desert air ; but I am not sure, 
after all, it is not a mundane sort of notion thinking that 
the uses and beauties of things in nature are wasted simply 
because they are not seen. Is it their raison d’Ure that 
they should be looked at and admired by all ? ” 

“ As Kingsley says, though we can find out a good deal 
about Madam How, we have to be very humble indeed 
when we approach Lady Why, and it is only now and then 
she lets us have a glimpse of herself beneath the veil. I 
suppose, really,” after a moment’s musing, the angels find 
far too absorbing interest in looking in at people’s souls to 
trouble themselves about any inanimate beauties at all. 
What a wonderful study it must be ! ” 

Eather a painful one, I should think — at least, with 
most of us.” And Francis thought inwardly how his own 
guardian angel, if he had one, must envy Eose’s. 

“ Yes, the continued contact with sin ; that has often 
occurred to me. The intense interest there is for us in the 
study of human nature is, of course, quite a different thing, 
whatever our altruistic sentiments— as Herbert Spencer 
expresses it — may be, except, perhaps, in the case of really 
saintly people.” 

Do you remember that wonderful description of John 
Inglesant’s experiences in Italy, and the fascination which 
he found in looking on at life in its saddest and most 
wicked forms, while he saw that the feeling had nothing 


THE LAST LESSON. 


51 


to do with a love of humanity — rather the contrary, for 
he had no wish to better matters ; the sin and misery were 
elements in the kind of mysterious attraction it had for 
him.” 

‘‘ You have read John Inglesant, then ? Twice over ! 
So have I ; the greater part of it three times. No book ever 
fascinated me so much, or made me so very sad. He had 
in him such wonderful capacities ; he began so well, and 
then failed. Oh, yes, certainly he failed to reach the noble 
heights for which he was intended.” 

It is much more true to life on that account.” 

Which is just what makes the book so sad. I could 
have lain down and cried after John’s interview with 
Cressy.” 

You think he ought to have taken the padre’s advice, 
then — given up all his intellectual pursuits, and gone in 
for teaching dirty children and distributing blankets to 
needy old women ? I am not so sure about that.” 

If he had, he would have turned out a Charles de 
Coudren or a St. Francis de Sales.” 

A Charles de Coudren, I think. That was John Ingle- 
sant’s nature, self-controlled, self-sacrificing, never moved 
; out of his course by natural feeling.” 

' “ Instead of which he sank down to a little above the 

i ordinary level. The crisis came in his life, as I suppose it 
does in every life, and he failed.” 

They were silent for a minute or so ; then Eose turned 
somewhat suddenly to her companion and said, with a 
greater earnestness than he had ever yet seen in her : 

I hope, when your time comes, that you will not fail, 
Francis.” 

‘^I hope not, too,” he answered, very quietly. And 
looking into his face then, Eose thought he would not 
fail. When the time does come,” he said, ^‘I shall think 
I of you.” 


52 


FRANCIS. 


A silence fell upon them, which lasted for a minute or 
two, only broken by the low hum of a few insects and some 
faint far-away sounds from the world above. 

But we are not doing any lessons,’^ said Eose, at length, 
in her usual energetic voice, as she opened her books. 

Oh, let the lessons slide ! was Francis's answer. 

“ You are too tired for them ? " 

‘‘ No ! oh no, not tired." 

Well, you shall whistle something for me first, and 
when you are quite cool we will begin." 

It had become part of the regular routine that Francis 
should display his sole accomplishment to Eose, and the 
sweet solitary note accorded well with the enchanted still- 
ness of the place. He went on longer than usual to-day, 
his mind not being bent upon study. His theme varied 
continually, changing from light and graceful to meas- 
ured and serious, from valse-music or operatic to th^ clas- 
sical airs that both he and she loved best; yet through all 
ran a certain pathetic strain, according with the conscious- 
ness ever present in his mind of the dying sweetness of 
these last hours of their lovely summer dream. Last of all 
Eose asked him to whistle II Toreador,’^ and made him 
repeat it again. Then she gave her instructions, winding 
up the course of work which she had laid out. Francis 
sighed as she shut up the last book and rose from her 
mossy seat, saying that she intended to walk home to-day. 
He rose too, and accompanied her, as it was his wont to 
do, as far as the carriage. They reascended the steep bank 
by another pathway, and walked down the grassy slope to 
which it led them, crossing a lane that lay at the bottom. 
There they climbed 'over a stile, and were in a field of long 
grass awaiting the mower's scythe ; the warm wind swept 
over it, waving its feathery pink and green sprays, and the 
buttercups and red blossoms of the sorrel, and the great 
white dog-daisies which grew between. At their feet the 


i 


THE LAST LESSOH. 


53 


yellow crow’s-foot crept humbly, while ragged robbins and 
purple orchises tried hard to lift their heads to the level 
of the taller flowers. On the other side of the meadow a 
marshy spot was visible, where were irises wearing proudly 
their golden crowns. 

‘'Are they not beautiful?” said Eose, pointing them 
out to her companion. A silence had fallen upon them, 
and she felt impelled to break it. Francis plunged, quick 
as thought, into the tall sweet grass, and was away to 
gather them for her, while she made a nosegay of the 
more modest field-flowers beside her. The irises were 
soon brought, and when they reached the next field Eose 
added to the bunch honeysuckle from the hedge and dog- 
roses, pink and sharp with thorns — only that he broke 
them all off for her — and white ones pure and thornless, 
like the ghosts of departed love- joys which come to us in 
our dreams, without a trace of all the little pains and sor- 
rows which had in true life surrounded them. The hay 
was cut down here, and lay in rich furrows upon the 
ground. At a little distance, some men in blouses and 
women in pink and blue sun-bonnets were tossing it upon 
their pitch-forks, and their laughter was borne over to 
Eose and Francis upon the sunny, fragrant air. 

“ It is very grievous to think that this is the last day of 
our lessons,” he said, at length. “What will your poor 
pupil do without his instructress ? ” and his smile was 
rather a sad one. 

“You will get on very well, I am sure, Francis, after 
working so hard as you have done and making such a 
capital start. Oh, yes, you do not need instructors with 
your real wish to learn and aptitude for it. Is it not 
enough for you that you have, and always will have, 
books and Nature ? ” 

“There is a better teacher than these,” he answered, 
softly. 


54 


FRANCIS. 


“Yes, indeed. Yet He teaches very largely by their 
means, she said, in a reverent voice. 

But he had meant love. She meant love also, only a 
different love. Yet who shall say how near their mean- 
ings came together ? 

From the hay-field they passed into a narrow foot-path, 
where there was only room to go single file, between the 
stretches of young corn just in the ear. As the breeze set 
it waving, Eose stopped for a moment to admire its blue- 
green lustre and the bright scarlet of the poppies that 
stood in among the stalks, drooping their sleepy heads or 
letting their open petals flap lazily in the wind. After 
that their way led through an oat-field, where the yellow 
marigolds tempted Eose to add yet another posy to her 
bunch. Francis picked them, and gave them to her as he 
helped her over the last stile. 

At that moment their eyes met, and then 

His eyes had grown very soft, very soft indeed ; and 
both her hands were in his. How was it ? One knows 
not. Some electric current ran, it may be, from the one 
soul to the other ; but so it was that then, at this instant, 
the light flashed upon her heart. 

A quick step was coming over the field, and the sight 
of a manly figure, approaching with firm and rapid strides, 
was what met their eyes as they turned their faces in that 
direction. It was that of Philip Caldicott, who had been 
out rat-shooting, and had walked a little out of his way to 
meet his sister and accompany her home. The expression 
of his face as he saw the two coming towards him was 
very far from pleasant. 

As ill-luck would have it, Eose, who at any previous 
moment of her intercourse with Francis would have met 
her brother with open face and wholly unembarrassed, 
felt at this instant her cheeks were giwing scarlet, and, 


THE LAST LESSOH. 


55 


in a tone very different from her usual frank and candid 
one, said as they met : 

‘‘This is Francis Greye/^ 

“ So I supposed,” Philip replied, very briefly and lacon- 
ically, as he surveyed him in an angry stare, which Francis 
received passively, with becoming hauteur. 

“You can give me those books, young man,” Philip 
continued, taking possession of them in a way which sug- 
gested a decided intention of wresting them from him by 
force if they were not immediately yielded up. 

But Francis gave them, at a sign from Rose. 

“And,” he added, very emphatically, with a voice that 
was meant to resemble that in which one addresses a dog 
who has been misbehaving himself, “you need never 
trouble yourself, sir, to accompany my sister again.” 

Francis Greye was perfectly equal to the occasion, how- 
ever. He looked at Philip calmly, with an expression of 
some slight amusement mingled with a certain disdainful 
pity, as he would have regarded the crying of a spoilt 
child; waited for a moment to hear if there was anything 
more he intended to say ; then, turning to Rose, wished 
her good-evening with his sweetest smile — “ or rather,” as 
he added, au revoir,” He took off his hat as he did so, 
and retired with his most stately and superior bow. 

“ I never saw anything like the confounded impudence 
of that young man,” said Philip, wrathfully, as he strode 
along with his sister in the direction of Marycross. “ I 
like his cheek — walking home with you, indeed; helping 
you with his dirty hands” — a libel, by the way — “over 
the stile ! ” 

“ Take care, Philip ! ” 

“ I donT care if he does hear. I particularly want him 
to hear. If a fellow doesnT know his place, he has to be 
shown it. I only wish I had knocked him down.” 

“ Tried to knock him down ” might, perhaps, have been 


56 


FRAKCIS. 


a more correct way of putting it; for though Philip, whose 
frame was iron, and constitution that of the proverbial 
horse, was infinitely his superior in pure physical strength, 
Francis was by no means wanting in muscle, and had 
studied the arts of self-defense to quite as much purpose 
as the young Sandhurst cadet. 

This is just what comes of your going about the 
country teaching these people, and trying to raise them 
above their proper station,” went on Philip, knocking off 
the daisies’ heads angrily with his stick as he walked. 

Of course the result is that they forget their position, 
and get stuck-up and discontented, and then one finds 
them indulging in some act of impertinence like this.” 

Francis. G-reye is neither stuck-up nor discontented,” 
Eose answered, quietly. ‘^If there is fault to be found 
with any one, it is with me — not with him — for I have 
always allowed him to walk down with me to the carriage. 
Nothing could have been more civil, respectful, and cour- 
teous, than his manner towards me every time that we 
have met.” 

Of course it is your fault, Eose.” Philip was too 
angry as yet to call her Squirrel. ‘‘ That is just what I 
have told you from the first. It is all owing to these 
ridiculous notions you have picked up about the equality 
jof man, and the wrongs of the lower orders, and that kind 
of nonsense. But I wish I had gone back and knocked 
that fellow down ! ” 


THE AWAKEHIHG. 


57 


CHAPTER V. 

THE AWAKENING. 

Oh break, my heart ! Poor bankrupt, break at once, 

Borneo and Juliet, hi. 2. 

I am now sailed into the North of my lady’s opinion. 

Twelfth Night, iii. 2. 

So Eose went up to London, was presented at court, 
made her dehut under the auspices of her aunt, went to 
balls and a variety of other social entertainments — to the 
opera and to all the best theatres ; rode and drove in the 
Park, and became acquainted with a large number of 
fashionable people. 

And did she enjoy it ? To a certain extent she did, of 
course. Her beauty attracted people, and it is always 
pleasant to be admired. The life, being entirely new to 
her, was interesting in itself, and gave a good deal of food 
to her imagination. Much that was beautiful came in 
her way, and much that was exceedingly fascinating. But 
yet she was not very happy. Coming, as it did, after her 
very quiet life at Mary cross, the constant whirl of excite- 
ment was tiring to her — more so than it would have been 
to another girl who took life more calmly, and lived and 
learnt at a slower rate. Eose became soon fatiguee dHm- 
pressions from being by nature so very impressionable, 
and she would have been glad of a quiet day in the coun- 
try now and then ; but Lady Lester was bent upon making 
the most of the little time that was left to them, and Eose 
was hurried from one place of amusement to another, with 
but scant time for repose and reflection between. 

In order to enjoy life thoroughly, moreover, one^s eyes 
must be shut to a great deal to which Eose's eyes were by 
no means shut. The sight of the poor people in the 


58 


FEAKCIS. 


streets was enough to damp, to a large extent, her own 
pleasure. Wherever she went, the sight of ragged forms, 
of mean, unwholesome dwelling-places, of faces sad, and 
wicked, and reckless, and miserable, was forever before 
her eyes. The natural pleasure of a young girl in the hav- 
ing and wearing of a constant variety of pretty garments, 
was spoilt to her by the thought of the long hours of work 
entailed upon other women in order that her beauty should 
appear to the best advantage; of the scanty earnings of 
the dressmakers’ assistants and apprentices, whose fingers 
had fashioned those lovely robes she wore — of the weari- 
some and unhealthy nature of their toil. Make it as 
simple as possible,” was the only direction she cared to 
give concerning any new dress that might be ordered ; 
‘‘and” — as she thought of the working over-hours which, 
although not allowed by law, is still in full swing in many 
branches of female employment — “you need not 'hurry 
about sending it home — that is, if you are at all pressed 
for time.” The joys, of shopping were in like manner em- 
bittered to Rose by her feeling for the tired girls who 
stood, through all those long hot summer days, behind 
the counters, laying up in store for themselves, in too 
many instances, years of future ill-health, and consequent 
poverty. 

When she drove with her aunt in the Park, her gaze 
was forever resting on the long lines of outsiders — men 
and women whose own lives were doubtless a mere strug- 
gle for existence — who stood looking on at the luxury and 
splendor, “ which,” thought Rose, “ it is they who are 
working to maintain, and of which they will never so 
much as taste, with all their years of patient toil.” She 
studied their faces, and wondered what was going on 
within their hearts — whether they really took the differ- 
ence between their lot and that of the rich as contentedly 
and quietly as they seemed to do, or if indeed, there was 


THE AWAKEKIHG. 


59 


a fire smoldering within in the heart of the nation, which 
should at no far distant period break forth in a revolution, 
as the writings which had made so deep an impression 
upon her said. And thus, absorbed in her own serious 
thoughts, she required sometimes to be roused by the 
voice of her aunt telling her, not without a little sharp- 
ness in her tone, that she had passed an acquaintance and 
cut him dead, and that she really must wake from her 
dreams. 

“ That is the worst of having lived a retired life in the 
country all this time,^’ she said. ‘‘You have got into the 
habit of dreaming, when you ought to have your eyes 
open and your wits about you. You will never get on, 
my dear child, if you donT.’^ 

Perhaps Lady Lester was a little too anxious that her 
niece should “get on” in the world. She gave her too 
many directions for her conduct, commented too much to 
her upon her behavior, and went near to destroying that 
charm of exceeding naturalness, and absence of self-con- 
sciousness and vanity, which were among Eose’s most de- 
lightful traits. So many injunctions did the girl receive 
as to her manner of deporting herself, so well was she 
aware that the eye of her aunt was continually upon her, 
very critically, although not unkindly, surveying her mode 
of behavior, that she never felt thoroughly at her ease, and 
chafed a little under this constant sensation of restraint. 

Eose was not, in Lady Lester’s eyes, the success that she 
ought to have been. People admired her beauty, indeed, 
and complimented her aunt thereupon, but there was 
nothing of the furore for her that prevailed in London 
this season about the beautiful Olave Stanley, who, though 
two years Eose’s senior, was but now making her dehut in 
the world of town. 

“ You are just as pretty, my dear, as she is, and might 
be just as much admired,” Lady Lester said to her niece, 


60 


FEANCIS. 


half in laughter, half provoked. That is always the 
way. Girls brought up in the country never do know how 
to make the best of themselves ! ” 

She and I have quite different roles, Aunt Emily,” 
Eose answered, with a smile. have not Miss Stanley’s 
genius, and however much I wished, I never could expect 
to be the least like her. I don’t think that the place for 
me is in society at all.” 

And her eyes grew dreamy as she wandered back in 
thought to the cool ravine where, at that moment, had she 
stayed at home, she might have been giving Francis Greye 
his lessons, or listening while he whistled to her air after 
air as she chose them ; and in her heart she compared 
him, as she was wont to do continually, with the London 
young men ” she was now daily meeting, whose conversa- 
tion seemed to her so vapid, whose lives so idle, purpose- 
less, and culpably luxurious. It was a little ridiculous, 
no doubt, the way in which Eose perpetually exalted 
Francis in her thoughts, to the detriment of all these 
other men. Young girls are apt to be ridiculous in their 
worship of their heroes. A halo, a meretricious halo, 
glimmered in her imagination round the head of Francis 
— too soon, indeed, to be dispelled and give way to a som- 
bre darkness, greater perhaps by force of contrast than his 
conduct had in reality merited. 

That same evening Eose went with her aunt to one of 
the weekly receptions of Lady Pepys, a pleasant little 
woman with a large circle of acquaintances of various sorts 
and kinds, whom she was in the habit of bringing together 
at her house to their mutual amusement, profit, and 
delight. 

Soon after their arrival, Eose was introduced to Miss 
Stanley, and, entering into conversation with her, found 
herself irresistibly attracted, as were almost all who knew 
Olave, by the peculiar charm of her voice and manner, and 


THE AWAKENING. 


61 


by the eager sympathy with which she entered into all 
that the younger girl was drawn on to tell her of her life 
at home, her thoughts, her aspirations, and her interests. 

How could you bring your pretty wild rose up to Lon- 
don ? Olave Stanley said afterwards to Lady Lester, in a 
tone of the deepest reproach. This unhealthy hot-house 
is no place for her. Ah, do take her back to the country 
before she loses her lovely sweet freshness, which she can 
never have again. Do you not see that her heart is there 
all the time ? And her eyes rested with a softness that 
was not very usual with them on the fair face of Eose, who 
was now talking to a cousin of her own whom she had just 
introduced to her. 

Impossible, I assure you,^^ replied Lady Lester, with 
an accent not quite free from alarm. They never see 
any one at Marycross. Besides, the child is only just 
eighteen.” 

Can we women never talk about our hearts without 
meaning something sentimental ? ” asked Olave, with a 
laugh, and turned aside to exchange greeting with one of 
her devotees who stood awaiting a word from her. 

Eose found Mr. Horton a not uncongenial companion. 
He had just returned from Australia, and had much that 
was interesting to tell her about his experiences there. In 
the intervals of conversation, it amused her also to listen 
to the brilliant talking of the beautiful Miss Stanley, as 
she addressed her remarks to first one and then another 
of the groups of young men who hung, limp with admira- 
tion, around her. Then some one else, a Major Philipson, 
who had, since his first introduction to Eose, showed her, 
as Lady Lester was pleased to observe, a good deal of 
attention, came and took the seat upon her other side, and 
managed as usual to make himself exceedingly agreeable. 

It never occurred to Eose to contrast this man with 
Francis Greye, partly because he was nearly twice his age. 


62 


FBAKCIS. 


and partly because, different as he was in every way from 
the young mechanic, she thoroughly and unreservedly 
liked him. He knew how to draw her out, and considered, 
as most men did not, that it was worth the trouble so to 
do. He sympathized in the interest she took in the Peo- 
ple, and, though not a socialist, had himself many enlight- 
ened ideas upon the subject. 

Rose and he were chatting together very pleasantly when 
an agonized whisper at her side drew her eyes in that 
direction. 

Charley, Charley, take me away.^^ It was Clave Stan- 
ley who was speaking, her beautiful face white as marble, 
and her lips quivering with emotion. Mr. Horton rose 
instantly, leaving the chair at Rose’s side vacant, to be 
immediately seized and carried off by a gentleman in 
quest of a seat. An instinct of frendliness prevented Rose 
passing on what she had heard, and Major Philipson con- 
tinued the narative of his Indian experiences, in which 
there had been a momentary break. They talked some 
time longer, drifting naturally from India to China, from 
China to the Chinese division at the Health Exhibition. 
At which Rose said that she and her aunt had not been 
there, but intended to go the day following, that being 
a Thursday. A friend of the major addressed him at that 
moment, and he rose from his seat. 

And then Rose became aware of some one beside her 
where Charley Horton’s chair had been, and she turned to 
look at him again. 

As she looked, her heart seemed suddenly to cease beat- 
ing, and for an instant she actually believed that she was 
in no real material world, but in the land of dreams. 

She was speechless, absolutely speechless — even when 
Francis came forward with the bow she knew so well, and 
in a voice which there was no mistaking said — Good- 
evening, Miss Caldicott.” 


THE AWAKEKIKG. 


63 


He took the seat beside her, while all she could find to 
say was, in an almost inarticulate voice, ‘‘ Francis ! ’’ 

told you that we might possibly meet in London,’’ 
he said in a low tone, with the smile which was so famil- 
iar to her. ‘^1 came up to town this evening on pur- 
pose to meet you. I heard that you were going to be 
here.” 

Kose looked at him still, with wide-open eyes and lips 
pressed close together, as though her usual smile had 
departed never to return. What evil genius had come to 
transform her Francis, her self-instructed peasant, her 
picturesque boy-lover, into this society young man, just 
like all the rest of them, in particularly faultless evening 
dress, and with the correct polished conventional man- 
ners ? If it had not been that amazement was for the time 
being too strong within her to admit of any other feeling 
she could have cried, as later on she did very long and bit- 
terly cry. Such appeared the transformation in her eyes. 

What does it all mean ?” she said at last, drawing her 
hand involuntarily across her brow. 

‘‘It means that your pupil has not been able to get on 
without his instructress,” answered Francis; “so he has 
been obliged to come up to London to look for her.” 

At that moment they were interrupted by Geoffrey 
Caldicott. 

“ I have been sent by Lady Greye to tell you she wants 
to speak to you for a minute,” said he, addressing himself 
to Francis. 

“ Oh, thanks. Where is my mother ?” he said, without 
enthusiasm. 

“ There she is, coming towards us. It was some time 
before I could find you, and I suppose she is getting tired 
of waiting.” 

Rose lifted her eyes and saw a lady approaching, tall, 
dressed magnificently, and in the most perfect taste ; a 


64 


FKANCIS. 


handsome woman, with a singularly dignified air and a 
carriage best described as regal. 

This, then, was the widowed mother for whom Kose 
had thought of making arrowroot and crocheting a 
shawl ! 

“ Let us go into the other room, Geoffrey,^^ she said ; 
and they threaded their way among the various knots of 
people till they were lucky enough to come upon a pair of 
seats, in a secluded nook, just vacated by another couple. 

Geoffrey,” said Eose, when they sat down. 

He asked if anything was the matter, for her voice 
alarmed him. Well, Squirrel ? ” 

Geoffrey, that young man sitting beside me, that you 
came up and spoke to, was — Francis Greye ! ” 

The result of this appalling announcement was that 
Geoffrey went off into a fit of laughter — which had, how- 
ever, no effect in softening the sharp lines of pain* upon 
his sisteFs face. 

You donT mean to say,” he exclaimed at last, that 
that la-di-da young fellow was your hero of the ditch, 
your self-instructed artisan, your — Keally I cannot remem- 
ber all you told me about him, Squirrel, but I have sheets 
of enthusiasm over your low-born genius. This is a 
joke!” and he laughed again heartily. 

Is he really a gentleman ? ” 

‘‘You had better ask the Greyes that! They think 
an awful lot of themselves, every one of them. I suppose 
they have some excuse for it ; they are a good old family, 
and clever fellows, too. I believe they are all getting on, 
in their different lines, uncommonly well. What the 
Yankees call ‘men of grit/ I knew the eldest brother 
at Oxford ; we were rather friends, in fact. He is very 
well off, and has a lovely place in Hampshire and another 
in the Isle of Wight.” 

“ But how was it, then, that I met Francis — Mr. Greye, 


THE AWAKEHIKG. 


65 


of course I ought to call him — dressed up like a working 
man ? 

Kose was almost inclined to think that Francis had put 
on mechanics’ clothes and blackened himself with the pure 
intent of meeting her in the way, and thus misleading 
her. 

I remember now Greye telling me that his youngest 
brother was at the School for Engineering, and I suppose 
he has passed his exams, and is doing the same kind of 
thing a man I know went in for a little while ago. He 
paid five hundred pounds premium, or something of that 
sort, and got into a firm where he worked in just the same 
way as any other boy employed there, so as to learn the 
thing thoroughly, you know. I believe it is awfully hard 
work. But this young fellow,” he went on, reverting to 
the subject of Francis, he is often up in town. I have 
been meeting him about constantly, at dances and things 
of that sort. He goes in a good deal for dancing, I be- 
lieve. Lady Greye told me that he was always in town on 
Sundays too. You ought to be introduced to her; she is 
a very nice woman, indeed.” 

‘‘Oh, no,” answered Rose, quickly, “I never wish to 
see any of them again. It is too— too horrible to think 
about !” 

Indeed, she could not bring her mind to dwell upon the 
subject yet ; and when Major Philipson found her out, 
and asked if she would not come down and have some sup- 
per, she was glad to take his proffered arm and escape for 
a few moments from harrowing reflections. They passed 
close to Francis, who was standing near the door, looking 
pale and tired — as indeed he had a right to be, seeing that 
in his endeavors, ever since Rose’s departure, to meet with 
her he had been burning the candle, as Mrs. Webster put 
it, very fiercely at both ends ; and with a London society 
attitude and expression of countenance which Rose con*- 
5 


66 


FEANCIS. 


trasted, with a throb of pain, with the free and graceful 
movements, the animated and expressive face, of the still 
ravine, the quiet delights of which had ended in this hor- 
rid nightmare. That is what I thought him — and this 
is what he is ! was the thought which passed through her 
mind. In the newly acquired knowledge that she had 
been deceived in her hero, it seemed to her that every- 
thing about his life and character which had once wakened 
her liking and respect must have been a delusion and a 
sham. As they passed him she cast upon him one long 
look of ineffable reproach, which had the desired effect of 
utterly and entirely crushing the poor boy, and thus went 
on her way. 

A very melancholy and unquiet night was passed alike 
by teacher and scholar after the reception at Lady Pepys’. 
Francis went home in a most dejected frame of mind, with 
a horrible fear that he had lost Rose for ever; and 'as he 
thought matters over, the fire of his love burnt hotter and 
hotter. He pictured again her sad, reproachful face, and 
tried to think she was unkind to him ; but the effort 
failed, and sharper pangs came as he lived over again their 
happy afternoons in the widow^’s cottage-parlor, and that 
most delightful of them all spent in the cool ravine. How 
good she had been to him, imagining him a poor boy ! 
What trouble she had taken for his benefit! How she 
had liked him then — yes, undoubtedly liked him I Would 
her eyes never rest on him with that soft, kindly look 
again? And the strongest desire seized him to do some- 
thing, anything, at no matter what sacrifice — nay, the 
harder the better, to win his way back to her esteem, to 
show that, in one point at least, his devoted love to her, 
he had never been a humbug. 

Then his mind turned to Major Philipson, and he was 
roused to a state of violent and unreasonable jealousy. He 
thought of the hundreds of possible Major Philipsons who 


THE AWAKEKIHG. 


67 


awaited Rose at Southsea, in her travels abroad, here even 
in town. The idea was maddening, desolating. 

‘‘I will have her, I will, I will he said to himself, 
each time with a stronger emphasis of determination ; 
while a hundred wild schemes for winning Rose’s affec- 
tion, each more impracticable than the last, coursed 
through his brain. 

It is the custom to laugh at a boy’s love. The instances 
may be rare— happily, so one might add, since every flower 
blossoming out before its time is almost certainly destined 
to premature blighting— where, in the first flush of man- 
hood, the whole heart is given and the love is a living and 
soul-absorbing reality. But where this is the case, can 
anything be found on earth more strong, more pure, more 
absolute in its self-surreuder ? 

While Francis was thus torturing himself over the pres- 
ent, and making wild plans for the future. Rose was cry- 
ing her eyes out over the fall of her young hero, the shat- 
tering of her much-prized image. In the fatal discovery 
that this Nature’s gentleman was no self-instructed youth, 
the theories themselves which he had been so effectual in 
proving, theories to which she clung with all the ardor of 
an enthusiast, seemed to have received a blow. There 
was, besides, the consciousness, always very bitter to the 
young, that she had been befooled. Rose’s cheek glowed 
miserably as she recalled the various instructions she had 
given to Francis, and pictured to herself — with injustice, 
however — the way in which he had doubtless been laugh- 
ing at her simplicity the whole time, and making good 
stories of it with his friends ; she thought with sickening 
shame of having called him by his Christian name. But 
there was a sharper sting in the matter than even these, 
and poor Rose, feeling this, though but dimly conscious 
of what the sting really was, buried her face in her hands, 
with her elbows pressing on her knees, and groaned. She 


68 


FKAl^-CIS. 


had been deceived in the man she loved. Yes, here was 
the whole truth of it. Other things were hard enough to 
l 3 ear — the disappointment when the strongest proofs of 
her theories which had ever been afforded her crumbled 
into dust, mortification at the ridiculous position in which 
she had been placed ; but the bitterest pain lay in this 
thought, ^‘1 trusted him absolutely, completely, and he 
has proved untrue ! ” 

She took the matter very seriously, you will say. But 
then it was Eose’s nature to take things very seriously. 
True, she could thoroughly appreciate and understand a 
joke. His quiet humor had been to her one of the greatest 
charms in Francis’s conversation. But this affair had gone 
too far, and had engendered feelings much too deep for her 
to regard it as a jest. Kose was by nature, above all things, 
true, veracious to the smallest detail. She was frankness 
and sincerity itself, and in consequence, singularly trustful 
in the truthfulness of others. As yet there had been nothing 
in her life seriously to shake this simple confidence, and 
she judged Francis with a severity doubtless out of propor- 
tion to his offense. At that moment she wished, or at any 
rate had persuaded herself that she wished, that she might 
never again behold his face or hear his voice, and would, 
had it been possible, have banished the remembrance of 
him for ever from her mind. 

And so these two young people were very miserable. 


FRANCIS’S VOW. 


69 


CHAPTER Vn. 

FRANCIS’S VOW. 

At the expiration of the year, 

Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts, 

And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine, 

I will be thine. 

Love’s Labour Lost. 

Eose came down the next morning, looking very white 
and heavy-eyed after her nearly sleepless night, and could 
eat hardly anything at breakfast. After that meal, her 
aunt sent her to lie down, which she did, with a volume 
of poems that she had picked up in the drawing-room. 
The poetry was sentimental enough, but did not afford 
her consolation by striking a sympathetic chord, as all the 
woes and wrongs therein lamented were endured by men 
at the hands of women, not, as in her case, by women at 
the hands of men. She arose unrefreshed when it was 
time to dress for the expedition to the Healtheries,’^ 
where Lady Lester had made an appointment to meet 
some friends coming up for the day from the country. It 
was hot at the Exhibition, and by half-past four Eose had 
grown very tired of walking about, and thought she would 
never care to see anything connected with health or edu- 
cation again ! Major Philipson had been with them for 
some time, and she was relieved when he left them, and 
her aunt consented to sit down under the trees listening 
to the music of the band. Lady Lester had not seen her 
country friends for some time, and was so absorbed in 
them, that Eose was left to her own thoughts, which 
naturally fled back at once to Francis. 

The band began to play “ Carmen,'’^ and the rush of 
recollections brought back by the sound of the familiar 
airs was very trying. She sat with her hands clasped 


70 


FRANCIS. 


tightly together, and her eyes fixed straight in front of 
her, very dreamy, and with such a saddening dream that a 
mist overshadowed them, and the brightness that glistened 
under the long lashes was of a different nature from that 
which habitually shone there. 

At this moment, extraordinary coincidence as it seemed 
to her, though in truth the meeting was not so very extraor- 
dinary and accidental, Francis himself stood at her side. 
His eyes were unusually soft, his face a shade paler than 
her own, and its expression resembled closely that which 
had so strangely thrilled her heart when he had helped 
her over the last stile. 

Are you very angry with me? ’’ he said, in a pleading 
voice. 

Eose was silent for a moment. ‘‘I do not know,^'’ at 
length she answered; ‘‘but I wish you would go away, 
please — and — I would rather never see you again.'’’ 

“ What have I done ? ” he went on, in the same plead- 
ing tone. 

“ How can you ask me ? ” and Rose’s honest eyes were 
raised to his, full of righteous indignation. 

A move was being made. Lady Lester and her friends 
wishing to visit the Old London Street. Taking, it need 
hardly be said, exactly the opposite route from that which 
would have led them there, they set off in search of it, 
Eose and her companion following the rest of the party. 
They passed leisurely under the trees, among the throngs 
of gayly dressed people, the air full of sunshine and music, 
but their hearts far too absorbed in each other for them to 
take any conscious notice of their surroundings. 

“ You have been deceiving me all this time, utterly and 
completely,” Eose was saying, in an undertone, but with a 
trembling voice. “ You let me believe you entirely differ- 
ent from what you are. You put us both into a false 
position. You led me on to do a great many things which 


FRANCIS’S VOW. 


71 


I should not have dreamt of doing if I had known you 
were a gentleman; only, of course, such an idea never 
entered my head.” 

“ I am very sorry,” answered Francis, a little haughtily, 
that my behavior should have given you a contrary im- 
pression.” 

“ It did not. Just the reverse — until last night, I mean, 
when I found out. I thought you were one of Nature’s 
gentlemen, and I used to tell Philip about you and bring 
you up in support of all my theories.” There was a deep 
consciousness of injury in her tones. “ I thought you an 
interesting self-instructed boy, as you pretended that you 
were. I used to hold you up as an example to my Sunday- 
scholars ! ” 

An example of what ? ” inquired Francis, in unfeigned 
astonishment. 

‘‘ Of industry and contentment, and refinement of mind 
in the midst of coarse surroundings, of self-culture and 
earnest daily toil. 

‘‘I am deeply grieved,” he said, penitently. But 
really I do not see exactly that it was I who deceived you. 
I should have said that the whole thing was a mistake on 
your part.” 

In the first instance, of course ; but that was only a 
mistake, and you encouraged it. You told me — I am sure 
you told me a lot of stories ! ” 

I do not remember telling you a single thing that was 
not true. I never said I was self-educated.” 

But you implied it in every way. You said ’’—recalling 
with an effort what he really had told her upon the sub- 
ject— that you had left school before receiving the proper 
amount of instruction. And you pretended that you 
could not spell.” 

cannot indeed, at least if I am writing hurriedly. 
Ask any one who knows us, and he will tell you that it is 


n 


FEANCIS. 


a family failing with the Greyes. I assure you that was 
not put on/’ 

And you spelt com iny with two m’s and put a w at the 
end of who ! ” said Eose, in a reproachful tone, yet one of 
resignation, as though Francis’s character for veracity had 
sunk so low in her estimation that even this last untruth 
did not surprise her, or indeed one more or less could 
make much difference. 

Well, I suppose I may have known that much ; but it 
was simply carelessness, indeed.” 

And you told me that you had a widowed mother!” 

“ So I have. My father died about five years ago.” 
They were silent for a moment ; then Eose exclaimed, 
almost tearfully, ^^The pains I used to take to teach you, 
thinking you were a poor boy, when all the time, of course, 
you were simply laughing at me in your sleeve I ” 

‘‘I was not,” with strong emphasis. “You did teach 
me an immense deal which will be of the greatest service 
to me in the future, and I feel very, very grateful to you 
for all your trouble.” 

And I lent you books and tried to do you good ! ” 

“ You have done me good,” he answered, very earnestly, 
‘‘ more good than any one else ever has done or ever could 
do. Why should you let the fact of what you yourself 
have spoken of as a mere accident of truth make you re- 
gret your kindness to me, and tell me that you wish never 
to see me again ? ” 

“ Because,” she said, her manner becoming more self- 
possessed and womanly, ‘‘ I have been deceived in you. It 
is easy enough to argue things out bit by bit, and prove that 
the exact words you said were not untrue, but you have 
been systematically and persistently taking me in. You 
are really well-off and of good social position, and you let 
me imagine you humbly born and poor ; so that we have 
been all along placed in a false position towards each other. 


FRANCIS’S VOW. 


73 


Besides,” she added, and the look of pain in her face cut 
Francis keenly, such intercourse would be very — very far 
from pleasant to me. I think we will say good-bve now, 
Mr. Greye.” 

They had reached one of the quiet side-courts, where no 
one was visible except Lady Lester and her party, who had 
stopped on meeting some further friends, and were ab- 
sorbed in conversation with them. 

“And,” Kose added, with a smile which was a very 
sorry proceeding indeed, don’t do this again and try and 
take in any other young girl, will you ? ” 

I cannot go away and leave you like this,” he said, 
passionately. If I thought that this was really the last 
time we were going to meet, I should — I don’t know what 
would become of me.” 

Rose was silent. Her face was sad enough, but not 
encouraging. 

Tell me I may see you again some time,” he pleaded. 

Give me any penance that you like to devise, and when 
it is done let me come back and find myself forgiven.” 

Rose shook her head. I must first get rid of the idea 
that I have always had of you, the hard-working, self- 
denying Francis Greye, with ten shillings a week and no 
more — a perfect instance, as I imagined you, of ‘ plain 
living and high thinking.’ All these pictures of you must 
be entirely swept away, so that I may not be constantly 
drawing painful comparisons between the reality and what 
was my idea of you. No, I think this must be the end of 
it,” she said; and by degrees I suppose that I shall 
forget the great disappointment I have had.” 

Francis looked at her, so nearly slipping away from his 
grasp for ever — yet who might — ah, surely she might — ^have 
loved him! Her sorrow was distracting to him. To 
think that he should have been the cause of all this grief, 
the traces of which were visible enough in her face — he 


74 


FEAKCIS. 


who would have gone through fire and water to do her 
service 1 Go away and leave her thus — it was impossible ! 

Tell me/’ he said: ‘^if I really go back to Abbotstoke 
and become, so far as it is in my power, everything that 
you have imagined me to be ; if I live simply and entirely 
upon what I earn, just as the ordinary poor boys do at 
Marsden’s, for a given space of time — let us say for a year 
— without touching a single penny besides my wages, will 
you forgive me then ? ” 

‘^Yes.” 

And you know what I mean. Miss Caldicofct? — some- 
thing more than mere forgiveness.” 

You really imagine that you will do this ? ” 

Other men do, I suppose, so why not 1?” 

“ Yes, other men, but not of your rank in life. I think 
that you have very little idea of how the poor really do 
live. Fancy you existing for even a month in that way ! ” 
She cast a quick glance at him from head to foot, as he 
stood before her in his faultless London attire ; and, quite 
unintentional as it was on her part, there was something 
like a sneer in her voice as she said the “ you.” 

All the spirit there was in Francis woke up then, and 
he resolved that neither the powers of life nor death should 
keep him from fulfilling his newly-formed resolve. 

‘^Do you suppose I should not think it worth while to 
endure anything, anything upon earth, to win you?” 
Could that word indeed be the same as she had used ! “I 
have your promise now, and I will do it, Eose. I swear to 
you I will do it ! ” 

He had taken off his hat, and the breeze blew back his 
wavy locks as it had used to do as he met her at the cot- 
tage gate, where the wind swept, laden with the breath of 
fiowers, across the downs. A fire lit up the boy’s face, as 
bright and strong as any enthusiastic fiame which that of 
Kose had known. His lips were parted, his eyes for a mo- 


PENAKCE BEGINS. 


75 


ment raised before they rested again upon her face with 
a tenderness which all the hard things she had said to him 
had lessened in no manner of wise. 

‘‘I shall not bother you with letters,” he said, as they 
stood for a moment before parting. Only you will know 
that from this hour I am keeping to it.” He took out his 
watch. Half -past five o^clock, and to-day is the 22d of 
July, 1884. Till the 22d of July, 1885, then, you may 
think of me as a poor boy, Miss Caldicott. You will ac- 
knowledge that one is poor upon £27 10s. of one’s own 
earning a year ? — Good-bye.” 

Good-bye.” She held out her hand. ‘‘Forgive me if 
I have spoken unkindly to you to-day.” 

Her gentle heart already smote her over the harshest 
words that she had ever spoken, and she thought her own 
personal concern in the matter might have added harsh- 
ness to her judgment. 

“Unkindly ! You have just made me the happiest man 
in England.” 

He held her hand for an instant, looking with a wonder- 
ful smile into her face. Then he turned and walked with 
quick elastic steps down the path. The distant strains of 
the band were wafted in. It was playing II Toreador, 


CHAPTER VIII. 

PENANCE BEGINS. 

I leave myself, my friends, and all for love. 

Two OentUmen. of Vermay i. 1. 

When Francis said that Rose had done him more good 
than any one else in the world, he said what was true. 
The crisis had in fact come in his life now, just now, as, 
standing on the threshold of manhood, his possibilities 


76 


FRANCIS. 


for good and evil, the strength and the weakness which 
lay in his character, trembled in the balance. How Fran- 
cis would turn out, was a problem which would be 
decided in these few years in which he was taking his first 
experience of real life. There is nothing on earth with so 
great a power of ennobling and elevating a man, as the 
love of a woman who is good and pure and true. And 
over and above this, there was for Francis a peculiar bene- 
fit in having found some one whom with all his heart he 
respected and admired. He was not, perhaps, exactly 
cynical, but there were in his character the elements from 
which cynicism is developed. His nature was proud and 
sensitive, though the former quality presented itself in him 
in no ugly and unpleasing form, and the latter he hid 
beneath an unobtrusive coating of reserve. He was fas- 
tidious in his likings, though good sense and good breed- 
ing led him generally to conceal the disgust he conceived 
for persons and things, and saw the defects in those 
around him more readily than their finer traits — which is 
an unhappy quality in a world where defects are so 
numerous. A refined and delicate organization was that 
of Francis throughout, and as such, infinitely more liable 
to disfiguration and destruction than one of a coarser and 
more solid make. His mind needed an anchor, and he had 
found his anchor in Rose, while his unhesitating admira- 
tion for her placed his soul in an unknown atmosphere of 
fresh air and warm, invigorating sunshine. 

A new fountain of youth and life and energy seemed to 
have sprung up within him, as he took his way from the 
Health Exhibition, feeling that he was pledged to an 
emprise, of sufficient difficulty and hardship forsooth, for 
her who was his lady-love. 

As he walked to his club through the hot, bright streets 
and the sunlit paths of Kensington Gardens, he thought 
over what the promise he had just made involved. It 


PE^-AKCE BEGINS. 


77 


meant that he must give up his club ; that he must give 
up to a great extent, at any rate, going into society ; that 
he must give up the opera, theatres, concerts, and every 
kind of worldly pleasure. It meant that he must give up 
his rooms at the farm, and the others equally pleasant in 
the vicinity of Abbotstoke which he had intended to 
occupy during the winter months. It meant that he 
must give up buying new clothes — what a pity he had not 
got that hat he intended to purchase yesterday ! But no 
matter, there would not be much scope in his present life 
for tall hats ! He must not buy anything, in fact, beyond 
the barest necessaries of life. It meant he must give up 
smoking. Well, he never did smoke much, and was not 
dependent for happiness upon his occasional cigarette 
He must become a total abstainer also ; better that than to 
drink the abominable stuff that would be thrown in with 
the expenses which were not to amount to more than ten 
shillings a week. This was, perhaps, the smallest part of 
his trial. 

It meant, in fact, that he must give up everything to 
live in the very cheapest and nastiest way ; and Francis 
writhed inwardly as pictures of dirt and ugliness and 
squalor, and miserable carving out his expenses to the 
utmost farthing, presented themselves to his imagination. 
And yet he enjoyed his writhing. Was it not for Rose ! 
And from these disgusting considerations his mind turned 
to the bright dreams of future bliss. A year hence, and 
what a glorious ending to all these miserable privations 1 
To have her for his very own, to clasp her to his heart and 
say "^My Rose!” would it not be sweeter thus, won by 
his own hard and painful labor, than if his longing wish 
of that morning had been gratified, and she had given him 
at once and unreservedly her love ? 

At least it was as well that he should think so, for a 
hard enough penance bad the boy laid upon himself, and 


78 


FRANCIS. 


he needed all the fire which enthusiasm and hope could 
give wherewith to set to work upon his task. 

Francis reached his club, and was just about to order 
something in the way of refreshment, for his walk had 
made him hot and thirsty ; but he remembered that such 
a proceeding would run away with the cost of his whole 
supply of food and drink for at least a day, according to 
the new regime. So he asked for a glass of water, instead, 
and sat down to read the evening papers. 

In reading, the time passed away very quickly with 
Francis, and it was a quarter past seven when he looked 
up and remembered that he was to dine in Lancaster Gate 
at eight. And, horror ! he could no longer afford a han- 
som — not even, if his soul had stooped thereto, an omni- 
bus. He would have to walk home, and — most abominable 
thought to his mind — he should have to hurry. 

‘‘ I must clear out of this,” he said to himself, as, not in 
the best of humors, he made his way to Kensington. 

Life in town is not the thing for a man who has to live 
upon ten shillings a week.” 

Kose, on her part, went home with her brain in a whirl 
of excited feeling. 

‘^What have I promised him?” she said to herself, not 
a little frightened at the thought of what had passed. I 
only meant to say I would forgive him. Can I really have 
promised him that ? ” 

And the awful seriousness of the matter in which she 
had involved herself almost crushed her as she thought of 
it. Was it possible that by silence she had consented to 
— to ? There could surely be no mistaking his mean- 
ing, or that he had taken her silence as an assent. 

But there is no chance of his ever doing it,” she made 
answer to herself, with reassuring smile — not the small- 
est chance in the world, Fancy his really living upon his 


DUEAI^CE VILE. 


79 


miserable wages! Of course be will not keep to it. I 
wonder now whether he will hold out for a week \ ” 

And yet, beneath all these comforting self-assurances, 
there lurked a fear that Francis would indeed perform his 

TOW. 

And yet lower down, beneath the fear, there lurked in 
closest ambush a tiny hope. 


CHAPTER IX. 

DURANCE VILE. 

He thought it was the longest yeare 
Since ever he was horn, 

Yet could not from his vow go back, 

Being thereunto sworne. 

Taming of the Shrew. 

Francis did not go back to Abbotstoke until Saturday, 
for the simple reason that had he done so he would have 
had nothing to eat, and would have been forced to spend 
his night in the Tramps’ Eefuge ; for not until Saturday 
were his wages paid in. He left town by the unconscion- 
ably early train which usually carried him back to his 
work on Monday, and in the course of the morning at the 
works made inquiries on the subject of cheap lodgings. 
An old Scotchman, by name Macgregor, was the person 
to whom Francis resorted for assistance — a quick-witted, 
silent-tongued man — one of the old school, who had re- 
ceived but scanty education, yet knew his business as well, 
and did it as conscientiously, as any workman about the 
place ; a shrewd man he was, with a habit of observation 
which had developed in him no small store of wisdom dur- 
ing the sixty-five years which had formed his life. 

Macgregor was rather a friend of Francis’s : he had no- 
ticed the boy from his first arrival at Marsden’s, and had 


80 


FKAKCIS. 


seen in him certain qualities which impressed him wdth a 
favorable opinion. There was intelligence here and judg- 
ment, a strength of dogged determination, and patient, 
persevering carrying out of the same ; a capacity for hard 
work, and a power of sticking to it not noticeable in all 
the young gentlemen upon whom the old Scotchman^’s eye 
had rested since these had first found their way into the 
workshops to learn their craft in the school of practical 
experience in labor, which not a few of them found very 
hard indeed. Macgregor received Francis’s intimation 
that he desired for the present to live in the most inex- 
pensive way possible, very quietly, as was his wont. He 
asked no impertinent questions ; he did not appear sur- 
prised, but, on the other hand, he advised him not to 
make the attempt. ‘‘Stay where you are,” he said; 
“you’ll gain nothing by changing your way of living. 
You’ve no call to play such pranks with yourself.” But 
Francis answered : “ It is a matter of pure necessity. I 
only want to find some place that is decently respectable, 
where I can get a bed and manage to scrape on somehow 
on what is left.” And he reminded him that Nasmyth 
had lived upon ten shillings a week ; whereat the Scotch- 
man smiled faintly, but with a great deal expressed in that 
same smile. But he knew human nature, and Francis 
Greye’s in particular, too well to imagine that the boy 
was likely to be moved by either counsel or argument. 
He thought for a moment, and then recommended a cot- 
tage at some ten minutes’ w^alk from Marsden’s, where a 
room might be had, till recently occupied by a farm laborer. 
The owners were, he said, a highly respectable family — 
the father employed as a carter, the mother a chronic in- 
valid, and the daughter an honest, hard-working girl, who 
did all her duties thoroughly and kept the place clean. 

At midday Francis went forth to find the Simpsons’ 
dwelling. He was directed to a cottage of moderate size, 


DURANCE VILE. 


81 


standing in its own grounds — that is to say, about an acre 
of garden, in which cabbages and potatoes flourished 
largely, and a few currant and gooseberry bushes, and an 
apple-tree or two, displayed their somewhat smoke-be- 
grimed fruit. Some household articles, which had just 
been washed, hung out on lines across the garden to dry. 
Near the cottage there were some flowers — rose-bushes 
and sweet-williams, red and white double-daisies, and 
London pride, which had just gone out of blossom, and 
such humble garden occupants, apparently well cared for. 
The cottage itself boasted a plant of Virginia creeper, and 
it was not altogether unpicturesque in its appearance, 
with its weather-stained bricks, small, quaintly-placed 
latticed windows and red-tiled roof. 

Francis knocked at the door, and was bidden by a quer- 
ulous voice to enter. He did so, and found himself in a 
large low kitchen, which also acted as dwelling-room for 
the establishment, since it and an adjoining wash-house 
formed the whole of the ground-floor. The walls were 
adorned with cuttings from illustrated papers, Christmas 
cards framed, and such-like humble artistic adornments. 
There were also some sacred pictures, painted in the most 
brilliant shades of green, red, and blue, from which Francis 
averted his eyes with something the same sensation one 
might experience if called upon to partake of a cannibal 
repast. There were some wooden chairs, a table, a dresser, 
and a sofa — the last habitually occupied by Mrs. Simpson ; 
and there were pots of well-cared for geraniums in the 
window, and a bunch of wild flowers in a broken mug. 

Mrs. Simpson raised her eyes from the book of sermons 
which she was reading when Francis entered. They were 
bright, restless eyes, never free from an expression of pain, 
and her face wore many wrinkles, which deepened into 
furrows as often as she related all the distressing phases 
of her malady. This being the poor woman’s only pleas- 
6 


82 


FEANCIS. 


lire in life, she was in the habit of doing so as often as a 
listener to her narration could be found. 

She wore her hair in a black woolly net, and had on 
loose-fitting clothes; her teeth projected, her face was 
unattractive; her voice, which closely resembled a whine, 
was feeble, but pitched in a very high key ; and from the 
moment when he first saw her, Francis took a rooted and 
active aversion to the woman. Beggars must not be 
choosers, however ; neither must people who are to live on 
ten shillings a week and must find some place of abode 
before nightfall. The cottage was clean, certainly, and 
tidy, and he refiected that he would not be condemned to 
more than an hour or two daily of Mrs. Simpson’s society 
at the worst. He sat down, therefore, at her invitation, 
and explained to her the object of his visit. She said that 
she had a bedroom vacant, that her terms were nine shil- 
lings a week, which included board and washing ; that the 
lodger had his meals with the family, and that they all 
fared alike. ^‘The last young man we had,” said she, 
“was William Burt — you know him, maybe ? He worked 
at Mr. Webster’s, at Alderley Farm.” 

Francis recalled a certain pudding-faced individual 
whom he had seen assisting in the hay-field, digging tur- 
nips, and engaged in other kindred occupations. 

“A very estimable young man, I should think,” said he. 

“ Yes, that he was, and no mistake. I never had a bet- 
ter lodger. He was a very still young man, and always 
came home in the evenings regular. Bill wasn’t one of 
them that spends all their money at the public.” 

Francis wondered if Mrs. Simpson thought that he him- 
self probably was. 

“He used to help ’Liza, in the evenings, in the garden. 
He dug up all that bed as you see there before he left. 
Yes, we was sorry to part with him.” 

Francis was silent, and the woman speedily continued: 


DUEAKCE VILE. 


83 


My daughter, she’s such a one for flowers, you would 
not think! If it’s just a bit of wild-flower out of the 
hedge, she’ll bring it in and put it in water so careful. 
She likes to have the whole place full of them. And ani- 
mals too, and all dumb things, she is that fond of! It’s 
her jay that’s over opposite in the cage against the wall ; 
she reared him up herself from just out of the egg.” 

Francis, having no especial remark to make upon any 
of these subjects, expressed a desire to see the room which 
he was to occupy ; whereupon Mrs. Simpson called shrilly 
to her daughter, who was up-stairs, busy cleaning : 

“ ’Liza ! ’Liza ! here’s a young man come to look at 
Bill’s room. Can you show him up-stairs ? ” 

‘^He can’t come up now, mother,” replied a voice from 
above ; ‘‘it isn’t done out. I will be down in a minute.” 

During the lapse of time indicated, Francis was enter- 
tained by a detailed account of the accident which had led 
to Mrs. Simpson’s lameness, the cruel treatment she had 
received at the hospital to which she had been taken, from 
the nurses, whose conduct she described as “ so ungrateful 
you would, not believe,” and their custom of snapping 
her up dreadful ” if she happened to want anything dur- 
ing the night. She was then proceeding to descant upon 
the neglectful conduct of the clergy and district visitors in 
the parish to which she belonged, when the appearance of 
her daughter cut the conversation short : for the time 
being only, however — Francis was given all later, and with 
many repetitions. 

’Liza Simpson was the exact opposite of her mother, 
certainly, as regarded her outer man. She was a strong, 
substantially-built girl of twenty or thereabouts, with 
cheeks bright with health and exercise, and a particularly 
good-humored expression of countenance. 

Francis rose as she entered, and instinctively made her 
a bow. 


84 


FKAN-CIS. 


‘‘ Good-morning/^ she said, prepared to present her large 
red honest hand had he shown any disposition to shake it, 
but he did not. 

I am sorry you can^t come up to see your room now,” 
she said, but it"s all of a muddle. Our last lodger only 
left yesterday. But I’ll have it straight for you by this 
evening, if you like to look round.” 

I should like to move in this evening, if it is convenient 
to you. Shall I he able to ?” 

Mrs. Simpson demurred, but ’Liza answered cheerfully 
that there would be no difficulty. 

It isn’t a very big room,” she said, but it has a nice 
look-out over the garden, and I’ll have it all tidied up for 
you by this evening.” 

Francis left with the notice that he should appear again 
with his belongings about seven. 

“ You won’t bring much luggage, sir ? ” asked ’Liza, 
apprehensively; ‘Hhere isn’t much room, you see, for put- 
ting things. It’s just a place built out above the wash- 
house.” 

Francis promised to reduce to a minimum the amount 
of his personal effects, and left, relinquishing with a sigh 
the idea he had conceived of bringing some of his house- 
hold gods with him for the adornment of his penitential 
cell. 

Why do you go calling that young man ‘ sir’ ? ’’ said 
Mrs. Simpson, rather sharply, as the new lodger left the 
house, and ’Liza prepared to go back to her cleaning. 

Well, he is a gentleman, mother,” she answered. This 
. girl had not been long in discovering what Eose had alto- 
gether failed to find out for herself. ‘‘ There’s been several 
of them, I hear, down there at Marsden’s. Why, you never 
thought as he was a common man ? ” 

He ain’t got up like a gentleman ; and as for his not 
being a common man, as you^say, he’s coming here to live 


DUEANCE VILE. 


85 


on nine shillings a week Just as Bill Burt did, and I don’t 
see as we’re called on to make any difference between 
them.” 

’Liza never argued, nor had she anything to say, or the 
wish to say anything, upon the other side ; but she went 
up and worked away with a will in the new lodger’s room, 
so that it might wear its brightest aspect when he appeared 
to occupy it. 

When work was over at Marsden’s on that Saturday 
evening, and the men’s wages were paid in, Francis re- 
ceived the ten shillings which was to support him for the 
ensuing week. It gave him a curious sensation as he looked 
at it and thought that upon this he was bound to subsist 
for seven days. He felt rather exhausted and faint, for he 
had had nothing to eat in the middle of the day, being then 
without money wherewith to purchase food, and the cup of 
coffee and roll he had hurried through before leaving home 
had been partaken of in the small hours of the morning. 
He must have something in the way of refreshment before 
walking out to Alderley Farm, and he must do it very 
cheaply, -seeing that he had only one shilling for anything 
and everything he might require in the way of extras be- 
tween then and next Saturday evening. He resolved to 
patronize a cocoa-house lately established at Abbotstoke by 
some philanthropic person, where he remembered having 
noticed that certain nourishing beverages were obtainable 
at the price of a halfpenny a cup. 

The cocoa-house did not look attractive from the ex- 
terior, being of a peculiarly dingy appearance. In the win- 
dow were several plates of cake and buns, which looked as 
if they might be relics from the Ark, and gave one the im- 
pression of having been made by fingers not over clean. 
The carcasses of many files, which had been surfeiting 
themselves on the cocoa-house fare, lay on the window-seat 
between the cakes, unwept, uncoffined, and alone save for 


86 


FRANCIS. 


a few melancholy companions who crawled among them, 
feeling that their own end was fast approaching. Inside 
it was warm and stuffy. No customers were there at the 
time, though there were traces of some in the sloppings 
from their cups and the crumbs from their buns, which 
they had left upon the little marble-topped tables. 

But Francis had upon him the true spirit of the peni- 
tent, or martyr — in which light he regarded himself 
throughout it would he hard to say. He went up to the 
counter and ordered a halfpenny cup of cocoa. The 
woman behind it, a respectable if rather fusty-looking 
widow, who, being like ‘Liza of a discriminating turn of 
mind, addressed him also as sir,” asked if he would not 
step up-stairs. 

A young man called from the background ushered him 
up to a fair-sized room on the first story, where were several 
tables covered with peculiarly coarse and dirty cloths, and 
a smell of paraffin pervaded the place. Flies abounded 
here also, and the windows were shut. Francis threw them 
open speedily, with a gasp. Why should the cause of 
temperance be made so singularly unattractive ? he 
thought. What wonder that the greater part of his 
fellow-laborers of a lower order were now drinking away 
their weekly earnings in one or other of the bright and 
showy public-houses with which the town, as every town 
in England, was full ? * 

After a few minutes, the young man who had shown 
Francis up into this delectable apartment reappeared with 
a tray containing the cup of cocoa and plate of bread and 
butter which he had ordered. The latter was tolerable, 
taken from the point of view of a fourteen hours^ previous 

*N.B. — This is not intended, it need hardly be said, as the picture 
of every cocoa-house, or indeed of the generality of places of tem- 
perance refreshment in England. Some such exist, however, and 
exist as warnings to philanthropists. 


DURAKCE VILE. 


87 


fast. The former was of a slimy consistency, and had a 
peculiarly unpleasant flavor suggestive of dish water, 
and, thirsty as lie was, Francis could only manage to 
swallow half of it. 

The cost of this repast was twopence, but Francis could 
not leave without bestowing a munificent gift of the same 
sum upon the waiter, so that his store of pocket-money 
for the coming week was only eightpence when he left the 
Britannia Cocoa-house, never in his hardest straits of 
poverty to enter it again. 

Slightly refreshed and exceedingly disgusted, Francis 
made his way to Alderley Farm. Here he found Mrs. 
Webster in a state of consternation over his departure, 
which had been already announced by post. 

am sorry you are going away, sir,'’^ she said, very 
nearly with tears in her eyes. I am sure I have tried to 
do my best to make you comfortable.^’ 

“ And so you have. I have never been in better quar- 
ters in my life ; but you see I am not going in for being 
comfortable just now. The fact of the matter is, I am 
obhged very materially to reduce my expenses. I shall 
have to live as a poor man for some little time to come.” 

But he said it in such a cheerful voice that the good 
woman did not half believe in him. She said something 
about reduction of terms, and would in her heart have 
willingly kept him for nothing if there had not been a Mr. 
Webster in the case, for she had grown foolishly fond of 
the boy. But Francis’s mind was of course made up. 

I shall just take away the few things I want this after- 
noon in a bag,” he said, and come to fetch some more on 
Monday.” 

But the farmer’s wife told him the cart would then be 
going into Abbotstoke, and would bring his boxes to him. 
When Francis explained where they were to be left, Mrs. 
Webster opened her eyes very wide. 


88 


FRAI^CIS. 


Bless your heart, sir ! she said, whatever are you 
doing ? You will kill yourself if you go living in one of 
them wretched little places. Why, they don’t have meat 
more than once a week, and you’ll never get to sleep upon 
one of those nasty hard beds.” 

“ Everybody seems to think that I am about the feeblest 
individual that ever wore man’s clothes,” said Francis, 
almost angrily. " How do you suppose that a man is likely 
to get through the world if he is always to be wrapped up 
in cotton-wool ? ” 

He was touched, however, and grew gentle and tender- 
hearted in an instant when, on going up to his rooms, he 
found the little cripple crouched in a corner of the bow- 
window, crying and sobbing quietly to himself, and dis- 
covered that the cause thereof lay in his own approaching 
departure. 

< < Why are you going to leave us, Mr. Greye ? ” he said, 
in the most reproachful tone imaginable. “I had got — a 
little rose-bush, in a pot — and I have been a- watering him 
— and a-looking after him — for a lot of weeks — so as when 
he came into flower — I could put him into your room — 
for a surprise. And he’s got two lovely buds on him — 
just going to open out” — with a regular burst of sobs 
forming a climax to the single ones which had broken his 
speech. And now you are going away ! ” 

Francis consoled the child as best he might, though he 
felt an odd choky feeling in his throat, of the kind one 
fries very speedily to repress, at twenty. 

He tried to comfort Fred by promises to come out often 
to the farm and see him, and by the gift of a bright new 
threepenny bit, part of the change given him at the 
cocoa-house. 

Another threepence went into the offertory-bag the en- 
suing day, and twopence to William Burt when, with a 
grin from ear to ear, he deposited his successor’s luggage 


DUKANCE VILE. 


89 


on Monday at the door of his own old lodgings. So by 
Tuesday morning Francis was left absolutely without a 
farthing, the nine shillings for his board and lodging 
having been paid in advance. But this is forestalling. 

Francis cast a long regretful look on the pretty room 
which contained for him the memories of so many even- 
ings spent in pleasant dreams. There were the roses with 
which Fred had filled his vases. During the last month 
they had contained nothing in the way of flowers but roses, 
and the cripple had not been slow in remarking the direc- 
tion of his friend’s tastes. Their sweet perfume filled the 
room. The red sunlight fell upon the aesthetic trappings, 
and the various pretty objects with which Francis had 
surrounded himself. He did not stay long here, nor yet 
in the bed-chamber, a large and comfortable room, with 
snowy hangings, honeysuckle looking in at the window, 

I and, through the casement, a far-stretching view which 
I comprised the church-steeple and a glimpse of the Hall at 
j Marycross, upon which Francis’s eyes had so often rested. 

' He put up the things that evening into his neat dressing- 
! bag, then divided those which would be of use to him, 

I during his year of poverty, with those that would not, and 
proceeded, with the mournful assistance of Mrs. Webster, 

I to dismantle his room and pack things away into his 
numerous tin cases and portmanteaux, which was all ac- 
complished as speedily as might be. Then after a repast, 
i without partaking of which his hostess would not allow 
! him to leave her house, and which amply compensated for 
; the meagreness of his meal at the cocoa-house, Francis 
I went back, with his bag in his hand, to Abbotstoke. He 
: found the Simpsons had been waiting supper for him, but 
' explained that he did not require any, and went up at 
1 once to his room, to w^hich ’Liza led the way. 

After his apartments at Alderley Farm the chamber 
lately occupied by William Burt did not certainly appear 


90 


FRANCIS. 


luxurious. It was very small indeed, about six feet by 
eight, and contained simply a bed of the humblest descrip- 
tion, a wooden chair, supporting a jug and basin, and a 
small table over which hung a looking-glass, so minute 
that Francis used to say he could not have seen both his 
eyes in it at once if it had not happened that they were 
rather near together. There were some shelves fastened 
against the wall, and three nails driven into the door to 
serve as pegs. The room was low, with a sloping roof, and 
was intensely hot through the summer months, as the sun 
beat down directly upon it; which was unfortunate for 
Francis, as he was given to headaches and very sensitive 
to the heat. 

But the room was perfectly clean and tidy; some of 
’Liza’s plants stood on the window-seat ; altogether, much 
worse quarters might be found for the sum of nine shil- 
lings a week. 

Francis was dead tired. He did not even sit down on 
the ascetic wooden chair to read, but went directly to bed, 
where, in spite of an inward shudder at the thought of its 
late occupant, he soon fell, contrary to Mrs. Webster’s 
gloomy predictions, into a sound and dreamless sleep. 

The next morning Francis petrified the household by 
his appearance at breakfast in London attire. All were 
quite taken aback as he descended the stairs, and Mrs. 
Simpson was almost silent about her troubles throughout 
the whole of the meal. 

They were not further disturbed by the society of the 
new lodger that day : he went up to London, taking ad- 
vantage of his season ticket, and did not return until the 
night, a little after their usual time of going to bed. 

On Monday Francis’s trials began. He went to work 
as usual at six, but without his usual cup of coffee, and 
returned at eight to a breakfast of porridge. This is not 
bad fare when properly cooked, but ’Liza, in common with 


DUEANCE VILE. 


91 


most women of the working classes, was deficient in culi- 
nary skill, and the mess was half-boiled and very lumpy. 
Monday was washing-day, and when Francis came back at 
midday he found the house in an unpleasant state of per- 
vasion with soda-scented steam. The kitchen was the 
embodiment of hugger-mugger, and the damp clothes oc- 
cupied half of the table, at the other part of which the 
family were seated, partaking of an unsavory stew, which 
appeared to consist principally of onions, hot water, and 
fat. Mrs. Simpson was raising her knife to her mouth 
when Francis entered, while her husband, who had come 
in from his work without thinking of washing his hands, 
appeared to be eating his portion chiefiy with the aid of 
nature^s forks. There was no table-cloth, of course. 

After a glance at the repast, Francis declined with 
thanks his proffered share, saying it was too hot to eat, 
and strolled out into the garden. 

^Liza followed him rather regretfully with her eyes, un- 
heeding her mother’s sarcastic remarks concerning people 
who turned up their noses at the victuals as was provided. 
The appearance of meat at their table to-day had been an 
! unwonted extravagance which the girl had indulged in 
1 purely for the benefit of the gentleman lodger, who she 
i thought was probably accustomed to something better 
i than potatoes and cheese, and she was naturally a little 
j disappointed. She said nothing, however, but when her 
work was done, ran in to beg from a friend of hers, a 
I farmer’s wife living hard by, an egg, for Mr. Greye’s tea. 

^^He don’t seem to fancy what we have for him,” she 
said, ‘^and he looks such a delicate young fellow too! 
I am afraid if he doesn’t eat anything that he will be fall- 
ing ill.” 

The evening at the cottage seemed a very long one. 
There was nowhere for Francis to go except to his own 
small room, which on this sultry evening was almost un- 


92 


FKANCIS. 


bearable. He took a walk after tea, but found himself too 
tired to go very far, so was forced back into the kitchen, 
where Simpson was smoking a pipe with execrable tobacco ; 
and his wife, being in the talkative mood, seized on her 
lodger immediately and gave him a further and more 
detailed account than she had done previously of her suf- 
ferings at the county hospital. 

Francis sat in the hard, straight-backed chair, which 
was the only kind the cottage afforded, with an aching 
back and a splitting headache, and wondered how he 
would stand the remaining three hundred and sixty-one . 
days of his penance — not whether he would stand them, 
however, for on that point he had already made up his 
mind, and no power on earth could have altered his 
decision. 

“I don^’t think much of that young man,'’^ said Mrs. 
Simpson, as, at an hour at which he had never gone to 
bed since leaving the nursery, Francis retired to rest. 
“ He thinks himself too good for us, Fll be bound ! Gen- 
tleman or not, I would rather have young Bill Burt back 
again. 

is early days to judge yet, mother,^’ said ^Liza, 
cheerfully. Hell get used to our ways soon, no doubt. 
He’s very quiet and civil spoken, anyhow — now you can’t 
deny it. And he won’t cost much to keep! ” 

“ Changing his clothes and all when he comes in from 
his work, that is what I call airs! They ain’t suited to 
plain folk like us.” 

Well, and why shouldn’t he clean himself up in the 
evening if he likes to, mother ? It don’t hurt us, any- 
how, and I’m sure I sha’n’t mind if he makes a little extra 
washing to what Bill did. It don’t make enough differ- 
ence to signify.” 

So even at the Simpsons’ cottage, you see, there was 
somebody ready to spoil him. 


THE MEETING IN THE LANE. 


93 


CHAPTER X. 

THE MEETING IN THE LANE. 

Hope is a lover’s staff. Walk hence with that 
And manage it against despairing thoughts. 

Passionate Pilgrim. 

Rose remained with her aunt in town until after Good- 
wood, and then went down with her to Southsea, where 
they had plenty more gayety, and the sea-breezes refreshed 
her dehghtfully. The yachting she enjoyed especially, 
and Lady Lester observed with pleasure that her niece 
was becoming more at home in society, and that her 
beauty and charms were beginning to be appreciated. 

Before saying good-bye to them in London, Major 
Philipson had come very near to making Rose a proposal. 
One step more and he would have done it, but she man- 
aged to arrest him on the brink, and they parted from 
each other without any change in the pleasant terms upon 
which they had been from the first. 

All the time Rose thought very frequently of Francis. 
He had dropped out of her life completely, as it seemed, 
and yet there was a possibility — just, just, a possibility, as 
she put it to herself — that behind the scenes he might be 
working out the penance which, if adhered to, was to end 
in results upon which she never dared to dwell. That is, 
if she was Teally pledged. And she questioned with her- 
self whether it was so indeed, and thence always fell to 
speculating on the probabilities of his keeping to his share 
of the compact. And that ended invariably in her saying 
to herself, “ He will never, never do it.'’^ She heard about 
him once from her elder brother, who wrote: met 

young Greye last Sunday — the first time he had been up 


94 


FEANCIS. 


to town for a fortnight, he said. He tells me they have 
been working over-time lately at Marsden's, and he looked 
rather done up. He asked after you, and said that he was 
glad to hear you were enjoying yourself. I liked him 
better yesterday than I have before ; perhaps because I 
saw more of him. He is a very nice young fellow, and 
has certainly plenty of brains.” 

People generally spoke about Francis as ‘‘a very nice 
young fellow.” 

Kose read this passage in her letter over again, and then 
a third time. He asked after you, and said that he was 
glad to hear you were enjoying yourself.” He tells me 
they have been working over-time lately at Marsden^s, and 
he seemed rather done up.” She was touched. 

After this, Eose was very anxious to get back to Mary- 
cross. But she was not allowed to return until the end of 
September, and then only with the promise that she would 
join her aunt again at the beginning of November, when 
she was going with her family to the South of France. 
All the arguments Eose put forward, based on her disin- 
clination to leave her father and her home, were over- 
ruled by Lady Lester. Katharine, the kindly, unattached 
maiden-sister, had promised to spend the winter with 
him ; and, as she was willing and able to undertake all 
her niece’s classes, societies, and other good works, there 
was nothing further to be said on that score. There were 
great rejoicings at Mary cross when Eose came back to 
spend six weeks at home before setting off traveling 
again ; and her own delight was that of a child in getting 
back to the familiar faces and to the country, in its pen- 
sive loveliness of early autumn. The corn was cut now, 
and there were not many flowers left in the flelds; but 
heather purpled the scraps of moorland, and over the 
hedges hung the graceful sprays of briony, studded with 
green, and red, and yellow berries ; the bracken was tinged 


THE MEETING IN THE LANE. 


95 


with gold, and blackberries clustered, ripening, under the 
bronze and crimson leaves of the bramble-bushes. 

Kose met Francis once — it was after she had been about 
a fortnight at home— as she was driving into Abbotstoke 
one morning, perhaps in search of those wonderful fabu- 
lous shops. She bowed to him distantly — very distantly, 
considering that he was the man to whom she was engaged 
to be married if certain conditions were fulfilled. But her 
' heart gave a great leap; and when he had passed she 
I found herself trembling all over, and she murmured to 
: herself : Poor boy ! ’’ 

The road was so very hot and dusty, and he looked so 
particularly tired ! She felt quite self-reproaehful that 
she herself should be sitting there, cool and comfortable 
! in her light summer garments, getting over the ground 
; so quickly behind her frisky little pony, with nothing to 
I do when she reached home but what she pleased, while he 
was on foot, with a morning of hard labor behind him 
i and an afternoon of equal labor before him ; and she 
I would have given a good deal to turn back and drive him 
to his destination, and say at least a few kindly words of 
encouragement. 

How it would have consoled Francis, could he but have 
seen what was passing through her mind ! As it was, he 
was feeling injured by the coldness of her bow, and a sharp 
pang shot through him as he thought, what if all his 
durance Tile should be in vain ! 

And she met him a second time, on this occasion when 
she was taking a country ramble. Francis had been to see 
his crippled friend, little Fred, and Rose was returning 
from a search for wild fiowers. They met in a narrow lane 
where tall oak-trees kissed each other overhead and shed 
their polished acorns on the road, and long ferns grew 
luxuriantly from the high green banks. As they approached 
each other Rose's heart beat very fast. 


96 


FRAKCIS. 


He took off his hat as she bowed to him, and thus per- 
haps they would have passed, but that he had something 
to say to her. 

I beg your pardon. Miss Caldicott,^^ he said. May I 
speak to you ? 

“ Oh, certainly.'’^ And they both stood still. 

“ It has occurred to me that as you place, I know, very 
little dependence upon my word, which I have given you 
perfect reason to do ’’—the element of pride came up oddly 
in his manner of saying these humble words — you will 
probably want to have some proof of my having kept to my 
part of the engagement and accomplished — my penance,” 
he smiled. 

“I will take your word for it,” Kose said. It was 
not till afterwards she took in the full meaning of her 
answer. 

Thank you,” said he, speaking very earnestly, and the 
old expression lit up his face and his eyes grew very soft. 
At that moment, almost anything he asked of her Kose 
could have given. But Francis had too much self-control 
to attempt to gather the fruits for which his soul thirsted 
before they were duly earned. 

He let her go without even so much as touching her 
hand. Yet the sight of her had refreshed him as a draught 
of cold water, and as he passed down the lane he whistled^ 
which he had fallen out of the habit of doing latterly, and 
the last sound of him Rose heard in the distance was the 
dying echo of II Toreador. 

When he was gone she was very near turning to run 
after him, and ask how he was standing the hard discipline 
which he had put upon himself and whether he was well 
— for in truth she thought him looking very ill. He 
seemed thinner than ever. His step had lost something 
of its elasticity, and there was a general aspect of weari- 
ness about him in face and figure, until their conversation 


THE MEETING IN THE LANE. 


97 


had given to the one uptightness and the other animation, 
which haunted her rather, for a time. 

Kose had been to see Mrs. Webster, and had heard from 
her what were his present quarters, and she knew enough 
of cottage life to have some idea of what her lover was 
going through. 

Yet Francis might have fallen into worse hands than 
those of the Simpsons. It is true that Mrs. Simpson was 
i querulous and complaining ; she did not like her lodger, 

I although she could not but acknowledge him to be a re- 
I spectable and still young man, whose quiet movements 
i and habit of silence told as negative advantages where 
there was an invalid. She was for ever contrasting him 
: with Bill Burt, and dilating upon the charms of the latter, 

I his custom of helping ^Liza in the rough work of the house 
and garden, what ‘^good company he was, and how he 
, had been used to cheer them all up, in a pointed way 
which amused Francis at first, but before long came to bore 

I and annoy him greatly. But the place was, as cottages go, 
admirably clean and tidy; the Simpsons were honesty 
itself. If the food was coarse, there was at least plenty of 
it, and a inan of robust constitution might, after the first 
shaking down into an entirely new mode of living, have 
fared not badly, upon the whole, under their roof. But the 
utter want of refinement in his present surroundings, and 
the sudden cutting ofi* of all his recreations, told almost as 
much upon Francis as the actual hardships of his new life, 
and he was fast coming to the conclusion that he could 
, not stand the cottage any longer. He would take a room 
in some house at Abbotstoke, and provide for himself. 
Then at least he would have his evenings in peace without 
: the nuisance of the Simpsons, and added thereunto, as 
; was often the case, that of their friends and relations who 
dropped in to chat, and stuffiness and bad tobacco fumes, 
and concertina-playing and such like torments, to which 
7 


98 


FRAKCIS. 


he was daily exposed at present, unless there was extra 
work to be done at Marsden% in which case he went back 
to the works after tea and stayed there till eleven or twelve 
at night. 

Francis had one or two acquaintances in the neighbor- 
hood to whom he might have gone, but wishing to keep 
his present state of affairs in the dark, he felt it more pru- 
dent not to cultivate their friendship further. He was 
therefore too hard at work or too tired in the even- 
ings^’ to accept any invitations, and soon came to live 
almost entirely to himself. 

’Liza still continued Francis’s staunch friend, and did ' 
all that was in her power to lighten his lot, heedless of her 
mother’s expostulations. It provoked Mrs. Simpson to see 
her add to her usual labors the unnecessary ones of doing 
little services for Mr. Greye, which had never been re- 
quired by any other lodger. 

Did he ask you to brush his coat ? ” Some such con- 
versation was continually recurring. 

^^No, mother, but it don’t take me five minutes. There, 
it’s done now ! ” 

And another pair of boots to clean ! Why does he 
wear them kind that requires such a lot of rubbing up ? 

It seems to me he might do his own, to say nothing of 
yours, as Bill Burt used to do for you regular.” 

Why, bless you, mother, you can’t compare this young \ 
fellow with Bill ! Why, he was spoony, you know. It was 
before Jem come and asked me to keep company regular; j 
so of course he’d do anything for me.” | 

And how he would work in the garden so industrious ! 

It was a pleasure to see him in the evenings. While this 
young Greye, just look at him now ! He sits there in his 
chair, a-saying nothing, or he goes to his own room and 
uses up his candles. I never saw a man as run through . 
such a lot of candles !” k. 


THE MEETING IN THE LANE. 


99 


Silence, and vigorous scrubbing. 

I ain’t a-going to let you carry up the water for his 
baths any more, and that’s what it is, ’Liza. Let him 
come down and fetch it for himself, if he wants it. Why 
shouldn’t he be content to wash at the pump, as Bill 
always did ? ” 

Now, mother, don’t you go worrying. I’m twice as 
strong as he is ; and once up-stairs and down in a day, 
more or less, whatever does it matter ?” 

It was ’Liza who did the housekeeping, and by the 
practice of certain little economies on her own part — in 
such matters as a new pair of cotton gloves or a ribbon 
for' Sunday, relinquished for the time being — she made 
things a trifle more comfortable for Francis than they 
would otherwise have been. She studied his tastes, or 
rather his distastes, so as to avoid the dishes he could 
not eat; and such small delicacies as a fresh herring 
or a new-laid egg from the farm, if not wanted for Mrs. 
Simpson, were always made to And their way on to his 
plate. 

It must not be supposed by all this that ’Liza was in 
love with Francis. She was not so in the least ; the whole 
of her honest heart had been given some time ago to Jem 
Paterson, the young bricklayer who lived next door ; and, 
could she have chosen, she would have preferred, with her 
mother, to have Bill Burt back again in the place of their 
more aristocratic lodger. But she pitied the boy with her 
kind, warm, womanly heart. It was ’Liza’s nature to be 
unselflsh, and to devote her time and care to others. In 
her homely course of duty her whole interest lay. Beyond 
the tending of her flowers and dumb animals, she had 
few amusements ; nor did she desire any. Simply, natur- 
ally, she lived the life that came to her, with little idea in 
her mind that it was as truly beautiful and self-devoted as 
that of any sister of mercy or acknowledged saint. 


100 


FEAN CIS. 


Thank Heaven there are many ’Lizas, and they are not 
confined to any one rank in* life. 

It was, in truth, an evil day for Francis when he de- 
cided, somewhere about the end of September, that he 
would leave the cottage and go into quarters of his own 
in the town. 

He gave due notice to Mrs. Simpson a week beforehand, 
and departed on a Saturday. 

‘‘I’m sorry we have not been able to make you more 
comfortable,” said ’Liza, as she stood at the door after 
helping him down with the last bit of his luggage, which 
he had been removing piecemeal. “ We have done our 
best, but of course you haven’t been used to living as we 
do.” 

Francis felt touched. He took out half a crown, which 
was all he had in the world, and gave it to her. “ You 
have been very kind to me,” he said, “ and I am very much 
obliged to you for all you have done for me.” 

’Liza looked at the coin doubtfully, even while thanking 
him for it. “ I couldn’t take it from him, mother,” she 
said afterwards, when Mrs. Simpson remonstrated with 
her for not keeping the gift. “ He looks ill now, and I’ll 
be bound he will soon be having to pay for doctor’s stuff. 
And he will have to skimp enough in the town, anyway, 
living one by himself with no more than ten shillings a 
week certain.” 

’Liza remembered that Francis had left a jacket in the 
wash-house, where it had been hanging up to dry. When 
that jacket was returned him, a few days later, in the 
pocket he found the half-crown. Never in his life did his 
pride receive a greater blow. Francis felt then as if he 
were really and genuinely poor. 


HOW THE OTHEK HALF LIVE. 


101 


CHAPTER XI. 

HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVE.* 

Remote from all the pleasures of the world, 

There stay until the twelve celestial signs 
Have brought about their annual reckonings. 

Love’s Labour Lost, v. 2. 

So again Francis went forth in search of lodgings. 
After several unsuccessful attempts, he stopped at the 
door of a house in a street in the heart of the town, in the 
window of which he saw a notice that there was “A room 
to let furnished.’’ He knocked at the door, and it was 
opened after a little delay by a respectable-looking woman 
of middle age, who informed him that she was one of the 
lodgers, and that he would find the landlady in the base- 
ment, which was the portion of the house that Mrs. New- 
ton reserved for her own use. 

Having made his way down the dark staircase, Francis 
was directed to enter the back room, and found there two 
women hard at work at their needle. They were button- 
hole-makers, and employed in one of the Abbotstoke 
shops, which, by cheap prices and startling advertise- 
ments, had grown to considerable dimensions, and 
swamped the trade of the place. One of these women 
proved to be Mrs. Newton, the landlady, a widow of sixty 
or thereabouts. She stopped for a minute or so in her 
work to learn Francis’s errand. 

"‘Yes, I have a room to let,” she said — “five shillings a 
week. If you don’t mind sitting down for a bit, I am ex- 
pecting my daughter in, and she will show yon up. It is 

* This chapter bmng taken almost exactly from life, the reader 
must not blame the author for its dullness if he does not find it a 
very entertaining one. 


102 


FRANCIS. 


my best room — the first-floor, front ; it is a good deal 
bigger than this, and lighter, too. These back rooms, 
with the wall running up there so near, are bad for that. 
These short days we don’t seem to get more than a few 
hours of daylight, and with this button-hole work it comes 
trying to the eyes. But there, it ain’t no use complain- 
ing. This is the worst season all round. Please God, it 
will not be so bad in the summer. — No, Mrs. Mayne,” as 
the woman who had let Francis into the house entered, 
with the inquiry whether there was any more work for 
her. “ When I have finished these, that’ll be the end of 
this set, and then we’ll have to sit with our hands in 
front of us.” 

Mrs. Mayne went away without a word. 

‘‘ Poor soul, it is bad for her ! ” Mrs. Newton said, sym- 
pathetically. It comes hard enough on all of us when 
trade is so slack, but it is almost worse for her, for she’s 
nothing on earth to depend on. How she does live I never 
know, for some days I am sure she don’t get a bit of food. 
And you will never hear her complain ! She is always that 
cheerful, you’d think she had everything heart could wish 
for. It is her spirits that keep her up, I say.” 

“Work is very slack then now, is it?” asked Francis. 

' “ It is awful bad this year. It generally is about No- 
vember ; but I don’t think I have ever known a winter 
quite so bad as this one. We have to send to the shop 
twice every day for orders, and as often as not there is 
none to be had when we go. Sometimes it will be three 
or four days that we haven’t a stitch of work — and that is 
bad for some of us,” and she glanced at her companion. 

This was a woman of forty or thereabouts, with a pa- 
tient countenance ; she had her right eye covered with a 
green shade, for she had lost its use one evening many 
years ago when her father had returned from the Green 
Dragon over the way. Ellen,” as Mrs. Newton called 


HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVE. 


103 


her — Miss Barford/’ as she was to the other lodgers, all 
being, in common parlance, ladies and gentlemen in Flad- 
gate Street — was a very silent woman. All the time that 
Francis sat there she uttered hardly a word, but stitched 
away vigorously, her fingers moving at a marvellous pace. 
When he addressed a remark to her she answered in a gen- 
tle and pleasant voice, but her nature seemed essentially 
retiring, and she did not appear inclined to continue the 
conversation. Francis had inquired how much they were 
able to make by their work. 

“ They pay us a shilling a gross, she answered — “ that 
is for the best kind ; the poorer sort of work goes down to 
sixpence a gross.” 

Mrs. Newton explained: 

An experienced hand like we are can make a penny an 
hour. It ain’t much, but we should be contented enough 
if we could always get work for that.” 

I suppose it is competition that runs down payment 
so low ? ” Francis said. 

Yes, that is it. If we was to say we would not work 
for that, there would be plenty thankful to take our place. 
It is the machines tha4 have ruined us,” she added. “ So 
much of the work is done by them now. But those ma- 
chine-stitched button-holes, they ain’t good for anything. 
They won’t wear, and people are beginning to find that 
out. — Well, good-evening, Ellen,” as Miss Barford set her 
last collar upon the completed pile, and put on her rusty 
black shawl and bonnet. ^^You can look in to-morrow 
morning and see if there is any to do.” But her voice 
was not very hopeful. 

“ If the machines are ruining your trade, is not there 
any other you can turn your hands to ? ” Francis inquired, 
after she had gone. 

There is plenty of trades, but they are all filled up 
pretty well. Besides, they don’t want old folks like us. 


104 


FRANCIS. 


The young girls can mostly get employment in the facto- 
ries, but we have nothing to do but just stick to what we 
have been accustomed to all our lives. And if that fails, 

well But we will trust it will not come to that. The 

Lord will provide, I always say ; just trust to Providence, 
and that is all you can do.’"’ 

There ought not to be such a fearful difference be- 
tween men’s earnings and women’s,” Francis remarked. 
“The men at the works get well enough paid.” 

“They combine, you see, sir; all these trade unions 
have driven wages up. In London the women are begin- 
ning to form unions, they tell me, but we have not got 
anything of the sort here yet. And some say,” she went 
on, “ as this combining to raise wages don’t do so much 
good in the end, for if there is some highly paid, there is 
lots out of work. And then the employers do not make 
their profits, and so work goes out of England. But I do 
not understand these things, and it is my belief that there 
is not many as do.” 

An opinion which, had Mrs. Newton enlarged her ex- 
perience of the suggestions of statesmen and the writings 
of economists, she might not per^ps have been led to 
alter. 

Certainly these high wages do not seem to do the men 
much good,” Francis said. They drink half of them 
away, I believe — anyhow, get through them somehow, 
and then when the hard times come, expect the country 
to provide for them.” 

“ That is it. It isn’t much that gets into the wives’ 
hands, you may depend. Not, perhaps, that they would 
use it much better. There is many of them drinks as much 
as the men, and the young ones puts most of what they can 
get on to their backs, till they have children, and then it 
goes on to theirs.” 

And when they are out of work ? ” 


HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVE. 


105 


“ Then there’s nothing for them but the parish. And 
what is the parish ? It is better than nothing — I don’t 
say that it ain’t; but some of them guardians do act cruel. 
Now there is a widow woman that used to lodge with me ; 
she is gone now, but she had my first-floor back room for 
a year, she and her three children — Mrs. Alford, her name 
was. You should just have heard what she told me ! And 
it was all as true as gospel, for there came out an account 
of it in the paper at Ipswich — that is where she was living 
after her husband died — and she showed it me. They said 
there as the guardians had acted very severely, but I never 
heard that anything was done for her to make up for it. 
She was living with some relations as she had there, and 
was just struggling along with a little shop as she had 
begun, and she thought would keep her and her family 
when it was rightly started. Well, it seems she was get- 
ting some kind of relief from the parish — perhaps it was a 
shilling, perhaps two, I don’t remember. Well, one day, 
all of a sudden, there came two gentlemen and said that 
she was to go off right there and then to London to the 
Union in the parish to which she rightly belonged ; and 
she cried and she prayed as they would let her stay and 
not break up her home like that. But it was not any 
good, they just put her into a cab and drove her away ; 
there in that Union she had been. Why, they might as 
well have carried her off to prison. Poor dear ! She had 
some friends that got her out at last, but she don’t seem 
ever to have got her head above water, as one may say, 
afterwards. She just took a job here and there where she 
could, and sometimes she would get a little plain sewing, 
but there is not much of that to be had.” * 

‘^Is plain sewing better paid than the button-hole 
work ? ” 

“ Oh, about the same, I should say. They give you one 
shilling for a night-gown, and sixpence for a chemise, when 


106 


FRAKCIS. 


it is all made by hand. But that is finding your own cot- 
ton, and. the work has to be fetched and taken back, and 
there is a deal of time wasted going to see for orders when 
there aren^’fc any.^^ 

Horrible ! Francis exclaimed. 

But these are not the things that is worst paid,^’ Mrs. 
Newton said. Mrs. Brown — she is one of the ladies that 
has got my front room in the basement — she works from 
morning till night at match-boxes, and she cannot earn 
more than sixpence a day, toil as hard as she will. In the 
room above, too, there is Mrs. Appleford with a family of 
five as she has to support most of the time, for her husband 
he don’t hardly get anything to do. Well, it is not only the 
days she works, but half the nights, and they are pretty 
near starving. She makes them cardboard boxes like little 
houses — you may have seen them — they pass through her 
hands twenty times each ; she finds her own paste, and she 
gets 2id. for 288 of them. ” 

Mrs. Newton might have gone on to further instances, 
but she was interrupted by a sound, half moan, half cry, 
which proceeded from a kind of couch in a dark corner of 
the room. This Francis now discovered, to his surprise, 
contained a child. 

Well, Amy, have you woke up?” And Mrs. Newton, 
putting down her work, went over and untied the strings 
by which the baby was secured to its place to keep it out 
of mischief during the busy hours of the day. 

Granny has time to take you now,” she said ; and the 
child, a poor little sickly creature, came with a crow of 
delight to her arms. 

Do you keep her tied up there all the time?” Francis 
asked ; she must get rather tired of it.” 

Oh, she is very good. T have her here with me through 
the day because her mother — that is my daughter — has a 
lot of little ones to look after and no health of her own. So 


HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVE. 


107 


Amy comes in here to keep me company. I just gives her 
a bit of something that she can make a doll of and hush to 
sleep, and she will sit in that corner as quiet as anything 
by the hour.'’ 

The baby was by this time released from her bonds, and 
sat up on her grandmother’s knee. She was a bright, in- 
telligent-looking child, but diseased in body beyond any 
probability of a cure. 

“She has never been well since her birth, poor little 
lamb,” the grandmother said, “and the winters are long 
for her, shut up here in this bit of a room. I cannot 
take her out, for I have no time for it ; besides I have 
a bad knee, so that I can’t get more than a hundred steps 
from the house. But in summer there’s some little green 
things comes up at the end of the yard there, and I carries 
her down in the evening when I have a few minutes to 
spare, and she does like that ; don’t you, Amy? We calls 
it our garden.” 

Here was a case for Kose, Francis thought, and he re- 
solved that next summer Amy’s experience of the delights 
of green things growing should by some means be enlarged 
— schemes not destined to be carried out, for before next 
summer the baby was where, the hymn tells us, unfading 
flowers grow. 

As Mrs. Newton was speaking, a young woman entered, 
with a white drawn face and consumptive cough, who 
proved to be her married daughter. 

‘^Will you show this gentleman the room that is to 
let ?” said her mother. don’t go up and down stairs 
much,” she explained, “being so lame; but Mrs. Kemp- 
ton will take you, as I said.” 

So Mrs. Kempton took Francis up, and he found that 
the room was of good size, very tolerably furnished. 

‘‘It is only just to let to-day,” the woman explained. 
“There was a couple living with mother the last six 


108 


FRANCIS. 


months, and she died quite sudden a week ago— fell down 
dead right straight away, without any warning, as you 
might say.^’ 

“ What was it — heart disease ? ” 

That is what they thought. She was a quiet kind of 
woman, as kept a good deal to herself and didn’t make 
any friends much ; her husband was out of work a good 
deal this winter, so they must have been pretty hard up 
sometimes, but they were not people as talked about it. 
He had gone otf somewhere to see if he could get employ- 
ment, and they had to send for him back ; when he came 
he did feel it, poor fellow. She had left her wishes to be 
buried in her old home in Essex — that is fifty miles from 
here — and he would have her taken ; it cost him a lot, 
every penny he had and more. My mother, she lent him 
half a crown, and some of the rest of us gave what we 
could to help him, but at the last he was five shillings 
short; and I will tell you what he did, sir — he pawned 
his coat, that was the only one he had to his back. Just 
think of that, this bitter day, poor chap! It made my 
heart bleed as I saw him go ofi with her.” 

And where is he now?” 

Gone to this place in Essex. I do not know where it is. 
He did not leave no address. They was very respectable 
people, and I should say they had known better days. 
When we come to undress her, poor soul, all her clothes 
was so nice underneath, lil3^-white they was!” And in 
that street ! 

As Francis lay in his new bed on the first night at Mrs. 
Newton’s, the touching poem from real life occupied his 
waking thoughts for some time. What was the past his- 
tory of these two who had let themselves be known so 
little? What had the solitary one done next — his last 
farthing spent when he had left his wife in the grave 
which she had so desired ? Had he ever got his coat back ? 


HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVE. 


109 


But neither this nor anything further of them does he nor 
the author know yet, nor probably ever will know. 

When Francis got his wages on the first Saturday night 
after his move, he went to the extravagance of buying a 
few flowers for little Amy, and whether ever threepence 
was expended on any object to the effect of waking more 
happiness in the human heart may be doubted. The 
child’s ecstasy at the sight of them passes description; she 
sat on her grandmother’s knee holding one blossom up in 
each hand, and stretching them out to every one in turn 
to smell, while her crowing and laughing, and the delight 
w’nich lit up her small sickly face, made it look almost 
healthy and absolutely beautiful. Francis acknowledged 
to himself that a certain amount of difference in the dis- 
tribution of wealth might be allowed as desirable from the 
point of view of the greatest happiness of the greatest 
number. The theory that the luxuriant expenditure of 
the rich is their best means of helping the poor, did not 
seem so satisfactory as he generally found it before the 
calculation that would suggest itself to his mind of how 
many treats might be procured for little Amy by the cost 
of one champagne dinner. Work it out, reader; the result 
i may interest you. 

I Francis was beginning to be interested in the poor folk 
I among whom he had, for the time being, cast in his lot. 
He made acquaintance soon with Mrs. Mayne, the widow 
whose cheerful spirits had elicited the admiration of Mrs. 
i Newton, although she herself was, in truth, no grumbler. 
iHe found her in a small back room, very neatly kept, and 
contriving in some marvellous manner to look neither un- 
comfortable nor poverty-stricken. The sunshiny nature of 
its inhabitant seemed to pervade it, in the mysterious way 
that a room always is pervaded by the personality of its 
owner, and Francis found that this was the place to come 
if he wanted to spend a cheerful half-hour. Mrs. Mayne 


110 


FEANCIS. 


always had a welcome for him, and an interest in any- 
thing he had to tell her, without the slightest curiosity 
with regard to those personal concerns of his which he 
wished to keep a secret. Indeed, he found that he excited 
little curiosity among any of these people. Their own 
affairs were too absorbing to leave much room in their 
minds for outer interests in things which did not concern 
them. Curiosity is for the idle, the processes of inquiry 
for those who have leisure. One man there was in the 
house who had leisure, and too much of it. Day after day 
he had been searching for work, week after week, and at 
last he had come back to sit with his hands in front of 
him, hopeless of getting employment, to brood over the 
miseries of life among the poor. With him, too, Francis 
made acquaintance. He was a painter. Watts by name, a 
married man, happily without children. His wife, a 
quiet, uncomplaining woman, was for some time the only 
one to return Francises remarks. She was friendly dis- 
posed, though not very communicative, but her husband 
sat in silence, a hard and gloomy expression upon his face, 
looking fixedly into the fire. In his third visit, however, 
Francis drew him into conversation, and then the pent-up 
bitterness came forth, and with an acrimony which those 
who have never experienced semi-starvation might have 
smiled at, the man gave vent to declamations of the 
wickedness of the rich, the hypocrisy of philanthropic and 
religious people in general, and the cruel lot of those who, 
only wishing for work, found it denied them. He told of 
an experience of his own, where, going to a charitable 
tradesman who had the disposing of letters for a certain 
hospital, to procure one of these letters for his wife, it was 
denied him because he did not deal at this tradesman’s 
shop. 

“ When I came away he gave me a bundle of tracts,” 
the man ended. “ ' Here, take these/ he said; ‘ you might 


HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVE. 


Ill 


distribute them as you go along. ^ I took them from him, 
and directly I got home I threw them all straight into the 
fire. What is the good of tracts to a starving man 
And much more to the same effect. “ I know a hundred 
men like me,” was the conclusion of his denunciations ; 
“ I have only just to go and lift up my hand, and they 
will come with me,” — for what purpose he did not divulge. 

Was this painter one of those who took part in the riots 
of the succeeding winter ? Possibly, for a short time after 
this he went to London, and was swallowed up in that 
whirlpool of human beings. Francis thus lost sight of 
him entirely, though his interest had been sufficiently 
awakened in the man and his patient wife for him to try 
to trace them out. 

Before they left, Francis, who was now working over- 
time, and in a state of comparative opulence, presented 
Watts with half a crown. The strong grasp of the 
painter’s hand in the gratitude that he did not find words 
to express, showed that his whole nature was not so 
soured and seared as his conversation, and that settled 
looked of malignant gloom which deformed his face, 
might have led one to suppose. After saying good-bye to 
the Watts’, Francis went in to sit for a little while with 
Mrs. Mayne. She was singing a hymn to herself, accord- 
ing to a custom she had when alone, and stitching away 
busily at her button-holes, her work held very close up to 
her eyes, for the constant moving of them through day- 
light and dark for thirty years had made her sight feeble. 
Cheerily she invited him to be seated and have a talk, and 
he left her room at its conclusion, as he usually did, with 
a happier view of life in general than when he had entered 
it. Mrs. Mayne had none of the pious phrases which 
with the poor are the religiosities (if one may be allowed 
such a word) which correspond with the prayer in the 
hat ” on entering church, and the momentary muttering 


112 


FRANCIS. 


at a certain stage of dinner, when laughter is for an in- 
stant suspended, of the rich. Keligion was her life 
simply, the air she breathed, the absorbing joy of her ex- 
istence. Theologically, probably, Mrs. Mayne was an 
ignoramus. She could read but little, and never had a 
clergyman to visit and instruct her. And she did not 
herself attempt to teach any one, though she spoke of her 
faith as simply and naturally as of anything else. Where 
the resemblance could by any possibility lie between the 
two, Francis could not for a very long time divine, but 
from the first she reminded him of Eose. Birds of a feather 
flock together. Mrs. Newton had gathered into her house 
a surprising number of good women — three, that is to 
say. The reader may think this not a superlatively large 
number, but leaving out of consideration the locality, 
which was one in which goodness of any kind was at 
scarcity value, these three were superlatively good. 

In the room above Mrs. Mayne’s lived an old Baptist 
woman, a cripple and continual sufferer, whose physical 
existence seemed almost merged in the contemplation of 
the Unseen. Shut off from the active world, her thoughts 
entirely occupied with the world beyond, the refinement 
of her spiritual understanding, and, to use Drummond’s 
expression, the marvellous correspondence of her soul with 
its divine environment, seemed to lift her more than half 
out of the earth we live in. Eose must come and see her i 
some day, Francis thought; she would like the old 
woman’s habitual God love you ! ” for good-bye.” And ^ 
she would like to give to Mrs. Purton, and to visit her — j ' 
though, indeed, he soon found that material consolations | 
were of no great consequence to the old woman, either * 
one way or the other. 

The goodness of the third woman was of a very differ- i 
ent type. She was a Salvationist,” and wore the dress ^ 
of the Army. Her theology was of the crudest, her y ^ 


HOW THE OTHER HALE LIVE. 


113 


phraseology would have filled Francis with disgust had he 
met with it in a book, or come across with it in any one 
with whom there was the least suspicion of cant. But 
there was nothing of the sort in Mary Ann. She was a 
healthy, homely, young married woman, with a husband 
who did not at all share her views, and two children. Up 
to this time Francis had thought Salvation Army religion 
consisted of emotion tinged with a little morality, very 
little of the latter — which may sometimes be the case ; 
but when he became acquainted with this woman, who 
was so warm-hearted, so true and so real in all her words 
and actions, and saw what a splendid wife she was to the 
husband before mentioned, through all his drinking and 
antagonism to her dearly-loved principles, he saw that she 
had hold of something which had life and reality. And 
though he did not like her quoting of texts, nor her 
bonnet, nor her musical instrument, which ground out 
Salvation hymn tunes, he became very fond of Mrs. 
Purton. 

One thing there was in common in the religion of these 
three women, remarkably different as was the form it took 
with each of them. It made them happy. There was no 
possible doubt about that ; and as Francis contrasted the 
cheery nature of Mrs. Mayne, the joyful-heartedness of 
Mary Ann Purton, and the elevation of spirit above the 
bodily suffering, surrounding squalor and poverty, of the 
old Baptist woman, with poor Watts’s embittered despair 
and his wife’s hopeless patience, he wondered what the 
Secularists imagined they were doing for the people in 
their arduous propagation of unbelief. Might they not 
at least see that in such instances as this religion was the 
sole refining influence and inspiriting factor in a daily, 
petty, sordid round, the one thing which turned exist- 
ence into life. Where something was found which coun- 
teracted, and as it were, nullified suffering, how was it 
8 


114 


FRANCIS. 


that any teachers of men could lay their hands on it as a 
thing of no value. Even if they regarded faith in an 
invisible Father as a lie, might they not at least consider 
it “a blessed lie.'’^ 

And Francis went to sleep, for it was in his bed that he ' 
thought over these things— very firmly convinced of the ' 
active energies of the devil. 


CHAPTER xn. 

AT ALL COSTS. 

Truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love. 

Hamlet, ii. 3. 

As Francis became further acquainted with the people 
among whom he now lived, as he breathed the air they 
breathed — a very grimy and unwholesome sort of air, 
tainted with the evil smell of rancid oil from fried-fish 
shops, and many other like odors — as he shared to some 
extent their wants, and became intimately conversant 
with their mode of living, he found his sympathies en- 
larging wonderfully. Francis had the habit, rare in the 
young, of not only taking accurate note of what he saw, 
but of thinking over it. That the burning question of 
the day — What is to be done for the masses ? — as we 
euphoniously term our brothers and sisters of the poorer 
sort — had never occurred to his mind, will not be sup- 
posed ; nor can it be said in truth that he drew much 
nearer a practical solution of it than others have done, 
now that his attention was absorbed therein ; but he cer- 
tainly learnt to look at the matter from a difierent and a 
truer point of view, and resolved to throw in his endeavor 
in the grand effort being made to find an answer to 
the problem. At the Works Francis had only met with 


AT ALL COSTS. 


115 


men in full employment and the receipt of ample wages, 
but now that he came to see behind the scenes, to meet 
with the men out of work, and the women and the 
little children, he found out how small an idea he had 
had before of what life is with the really poor. How 
many of them lived at all was a problem to him, and he 
began to think that even charitable persons, if blessed 
with large incomes, often did not know much of what 
they were talking about, when he remembered having 
frequently heard such remarks from his district-visiting 
sisters as that some family of five ought to be very com- 
fortable,” for the father earned eighteen shillings a week, 
and that another with two children should certainly have 
laid by something, for he had earned sometimes as much 
as a pound a Aveek. What brought this consideration 
very forcibly to his mind, was the arrangement of his 
own expenditure Avlien, work becoming slack at Mars- 
den"s, there was no more to be done over hours, and his 
income came down to the normal ten shillings a week. 
Then he was obliged to look out for a cheaper room, and 
found one at last, but in a very repulsive street. The 
rent of it was 3s. Gd. a week, and he jotted down on paper 
the necessary items of expenditure which must be made 
to fit into the remainder. They stood thus: 

Washing, Gd. A poor Avidow living in the house was 
glad to do it for this. Francis hoped she spent more on 
soap than she did on starch, but much of the latter Avas 
not of course expected of her. He resolved when July 
came to make up to her for the scantiness of her pay. 
Bread, Is. 9d. This allowed him a penny roll for break- 
fast, and a twopenny loaf, which served for dinner and 
supper. Milk, 7d. ; that is to say half a pint a day. Tea, 
a quarter of a pound, at 2s. a pound, Gd. Sugar, 2d. 

Things were mounting up dreadfully. Seven shillings 
already, and he must have firing and some sort of lights! 


116 


FliANCIS. 


Well, suppose he allowed himself one scuttle of coal a 
week, that would keep him warm on Sundays, and there 
might be a little left over for the other evenings, with 
care. 

Candles — the farthing dips — two a night, must be the 
utmost bounds of his extravagance — 3Jd. 

Now, to come back to food, for which the remainder of 
his income would not be too much. Butter, 9d. 

Two shillings were now left, or, more accurately speak- 
ing, Is. ll|^d., for all that he required in the way of sub-, 
stantial fare, besides everything in the shape of extras, of 
which some — such as soap and matches, stamps for letters 
— would constantly be presenting themselves as necessities. 

And six shillings a week was all the button-hole-makers 
could earn, and that only when in full work ! And they 
were not the worst-paid women ! Heaven help them all ! 

And now came a very hard time in Francis’s life ; the 
days were at their shortest, and their coldest also. The 
other dwellers in the house which he now inhabited were 
not as pleasant people as Mrs. Newton’s lodgers ; and they 
were so grindiugly poor, so dirty, and so generally miser- 
able, that no pleasure was to be had out of their society ; 
and since Francis could not aspire to doing them any 
good, nor expect to get any good from them, on the even- 
ings when he did not drop in upon his friends in the 
house he had just left> he used to sit, wrapped up in great- 
coats, reading, rather forlornly, by the light of his solitary 
dip. What should he have done if clothes also had had 
to come out of his income ? ” he wondered. In this re- 
spect, of course, he w^as abundantly supplied, though his 
stock of them diminished rapidly about this time. 

No one who knew Francis was, it need hardly be said, 
allowed inside his miserable room, or had the least idea of 
the way in which he was living. Fortunateiy for the car- 
rying out of his plan, his family were all at some distance, 


AT ALL COSTS. 


117 


Lady Greye and her daughters having gone abroad for the 
winter, and his brothers being scattered in various direc- 
tions. He had not been in the habit of writing often to 
any of them, therefore they were not in alarm as his let- 
ters grew less and less frequent. On the occasions — rare 
now — when he went up to London and met acquaintances 
there, his appearance was anything but poverty-stricken. 
Thus he succeeded in keeping everybody in the dark as to 
his proceedings. 

Not unfrequently did the question suggest itself to 
Francis: ‘^Have I not been a fool in all this?'’^ But 
tenacity of purpose was one of the virtues — or failings — 
of the Greye family, and he had resolved that, come what 
might, he would never give in. And the determined 
effort was wonderfully strengthening his character — 
changing, or perhaps one should rather say developing, 
it more than he himself was at the time at all aware. 

But, like many things which are good for one from a 
moral point of view, it was not a pleasant experience, and 
his powers of endurance were tried in it to the very utter- 
most. 

To do him justice, whatever might be Francis’s anti- 
socialistic views, he shared his crust now generously 
enough with those in greater want than he ; and perhaps 
this helped to bring matters to a crisis sooner than would 
otherwise have been the case. The cries of the half-starved 
children, whose pale, pinched faces met him on the stairs, 
whose wails prolonged themselves into his dreams when 
he lay down on his straw mattress at night, over and over 
again deprived him of a meal. At the beginning of the 
winter a cough had seized upon him, and soon his head- 
aches came on with redoubled fury. Sometimes, standing 
at work, he had an uncomfortable sensation of being about 
to fall ; and when he got up in the mornings it was as 
much as he could do to get into his clothes and make his 


118 


FKANCIS. 


way to work. But lie held out as long as he could, by 
sheer force of will battling off the illness which was gain- 
ing ground on him daily, inch by inch. 

But a day came when he got back from the works in 
the evening, he hardly knew how, against an icy wind 
blowing down the street and beating a fine drizzling rain 
into his face; he stumbled rather than walked up the 
dark and dirty staircase into his room, and, without wait- 
ing to light a candle, without taking off his clothes, threw 
himself with a groan on his miserable bed. And then 
Francis knew that he was done for. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

ROSE FINDS OUT. 

He lives not now that knows me to be in love ; yet I am in love. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona, iii. 1. 

A thousand deaths would I propose to achieve her whom I love. 

Titus Andronicus, ii. 1. 

All this time Eose was abroad, and leading an existence 
as enjoyable as could well be conceived of for any girl. 
Lady Lester had spent much of her life on the Continent, 
and above all things loved travelling. She took her niece 
to Switzerland, where they picked up the three children. 
It was too cold to remain there long, so they moved south- 
wards and made a raid into Italy, reaching as far as Eome. 
Thence by easy stages they made their return journey, 
spending a few days at every place of interest, and at 
length pitched their tent definitively at Cannes, where 
Lady Lester knew everybody whom it was desirable to 
know, and plenty of gayety was forthcoming for Eose. 

At Cannes the budding beauty fairly blossomed out 
As is generally the case with girls whose early lives have 


KOSE FINDS OUT. 


119 


been spent in the retirement of the country, when her 
first shyness and want of adaptability to the ways of so- 
ciety had worn off, the freshness of her ideas, and the 
charming naivete which characterized her, had won all 
hearts. No one that winter in the Eiviera was more 
admired and sought after than she. People had begun to 
discover a singular charm in the dreaminess of her beauti- 
ful eyes — in the far-away look which came into them 
sometimes in the midst of animation, gayety, and spark- 
ling conversation. 

A tinge of mystery hung about her ; for Eose had her 
secret, of which, though no one divined it, those who 
knew her most intimately and loved her best were in some 
indefinable manner aware. 

For it was, above all, when men began to address her as 
lovers — ^to say soft, tender words in undertones, which, 
had they met with their appropriate answers, might have 
been followed by others with more explicit meaning — that 
the pensive expression would come into her face, and, in- 
stead of making any reply, she seemed to steal away into 
a lonely land of dreams. And when they spoke again, if 
so they did, a laugh or a sigh, as the case might be, dis- 
missed the subject, and her lovers felt that there was a 
life she lived into which they had no access. Yes, she 
must certainly have a secret ; and some tried hard to find 
it out, but they never could succeed. 

When Francis had resolved not to bother Eose with let- 
ters he had acted in a very proper and dignified manner, 
but the result would certainly with many girls have 
proved fatal to his hopes. Again he seemed to have 
dropped out of her life, and this time more completely 
than before, for she never heard any news of him now, 
nor had she done so since leaving England four months 
ago. Was he keeping to his promise still ? All this long 
cold winter, as it must be with him, was he actually sub- 


120 


FKANCIS. 


sisting on his earnings ? The thought, when it presented 
itself to Rose's mind, came like a minor note striking in, 
all out of harmony with the gay dance-music of her pres- 
ent life. 

That life was of course delightful, wildly delightful. 
Fetes, balls, music, sunshine, pleasant society, unbounded 
admiration, new scenes and new experiences, an existence 
of which the raison (TUre was simply enjoyment, could 
not but exercise a fascination over an ardent, young, and 
beauty-loving nature. 

Rose would not have wished it to go on for ever. She 
had by no means forgotten her interests at home, but this 
seemed a part of her life bracketed off from the rest. 
The People, for the time being, practically were not. No 
reminder of their existence would have reached her but 
for the periodicals she took in, and the dates at which cer- 
tain subscriptions she always paid fell due. Except for 
these monetary aids there was nothing she could do for 
them here. 

So Rose took her life abroad as a long, delicious holi- 
day, and enjoyed it as heartily as at home she heartily 
worked. 

Only there was that one minor note which fell, unheard 
by all beside herself, upon her inward ear. 

Not long after the arrival of Lady Lester and her party 
at Cannes, Major Philipson made his appearance at the 
hotel where they had taken their quarters. They were 
all delighted to see him, including Rose, who had almost 
forgotten his semi-proposal in the many similar passages 
she had gone through since with other men. He imme- 
diately constituted himself their inseparable friend, and 
had not been with them a week before obtaining the con- 
sent of Lady Lester to make a proposal to her niece. 

He took his opportunity one afternoon when he found 
Rose alone on the balcony, running from one end of the 


ROSE FINDS OUT. 


121 


hotel to the other, which was her favorite haunt in quiet 
hours. Lady Lester had judiciously left her five minutes 
before, giving her lover the occasion he sought for. 

Rose had been reading, but her book had fallen onto 
her lap when she found herself in solitude, and her eyes had 
wandered to the blue expanse of sea before her; her heart 
had evidently wandered further still. Major Philipson 
asked her where her thoughts were, as, coming up quietly, 
he disturbed her in her dream. 

A long way off,^’ she answered, smiling. 

In a very pleasant place ? 

No, a very far from pleasant place. It is dirty and 
grimy,’’ she continued, as he looked inquiringly. ‘^And 
there is a great deal of poverty there, and misery and daily 
struggle for bread, hard labor and cold, dismal winter 
days, and nothing that is bright or pleasant or beautiful 
at all.” 

“Your heart is back again in England among your 
poor,” said he, taking the seat beside her and looking with 
tender respect into her face. 

Yes, my heart is with my poor,” she answered. 

She said the last two words slowly, and seemed dis- 
posed to dream again. But once more he interrupted 
her. 

No need to repeat what he said. In not many words, 
but with no little depth of feeling, he told her how much 
he loved her, and asked her to become his wife. 

“ Major Philipson, I cannot,” was her answer. I like 
you very, very much, but that would be impossible.” 

“Quite impossible ?” he said, for he could not give her 
up lightly. “You are very young, and perhaps hardly 
know what love is.” 

Rose was silent a moment. She was wondering if she 
did. 

Drowning men catch at straws. He imagined there 


122 


FEANCIS. 


was some hesitation, and again he spoke, pleading so 
earnestly that she was greatly touched, and it grieved her 
to her heart that still her only answer could be no. It 
was due to him, she thought, at least to give a reason. 

‘^The truth is,^’ she said, in a very low voice, am not 
altogether free.” 

If a thunderbolt had fallen. Major Philipson could 
hardly have been more taken aback. Lady Lester had 
most certainly given him no idea of this ! 

On the contrary, she had given it him as a fact of 
which she was absolutely certain, that, in spite of her 
many admirers, her niece’s heart had never been touched. 

‘^ 1 — had no idea of any engagement,” he said. 

^‘I am not engaged,” Pose replied, quickly, ‘‘in the 
ordinary meaning of the word ; and yet I believe that I 
am bound. At least I may be — I cannot tell. I shall 
not know till next July.” 

This announcement was so extraordinary that he sat 
simply speechless with astonishment and mystification. 

“ I know what I have just said must seem strange,” said 
she, “but I am not able to explain things to you.” 

“ At least, you know this much, I suppose,” said he, at 
length ; “ whether you love — him, or not ?” . 

“ I do not even know that,” answered Rose, after a 
pause for thought. “ When I do, I will tell you. Major 
Philipson, I promise.” 

There was nothing more to be said. He rose, and would 
have left her silently, but that Rose spoke again. “My 
aunt knows nothing about this, nor my father,” said she, 
“or indeed any one except yourself.” She hesitated. 

He saw her wish, and granted it unasked. “I will re- 
spect your confidence,” he said. And then he left her. 

Rose sat still, her mind full of disquieting thoughts. 
She was much distressed at what had just occurred, and 
for the first time felt as though she were acting in an under- 


ROSE FINDS OUT. 


123 


hand manner. She questioned within herself whether she 
had done wrong in keeping her compact with Francis a 
secret from all her relations, or whether her fault lay in 
having told Major Philipson about it. There was undoubt- 
edly something wrong somewhere, thought she, when he 
was possessed of information respecting her withheld from 
her own father and her aunt. Yet how should she tell 
him, how tell Lady Lester, now above all since it had 
never been told before, about that strange episode at the 
Health Exhibition, at which one would probably be angry 
and the other laugh ? 

Major Philipson left Cannes for a day or two in conse- 
quence of this conversation, and Kose hoped would remain 
away for good ; but after that he cam6 back, and every- 
thing went on much the same as before. Lady Lester was 
disappointed that her niece had not accepted him, but 
bade him hope still, since the child was not old enough to 
know her own mind. 

He did continue to hope, although it was hardly in con- 
sequence of her recommendation thereunto; and so things 
went on for a little over a month. 

As Lent drew near, the whirl of gayety grew more fast 
and furious, and entertainments of one kind or another 
filled up every available hour of the day and night. There 
was a grand fUe at the hotel on the 17th of February. 
Dancing began soon after dinner, and all the Uite of 
Cannes were gathered there to grace the ball. 

It was a warm evening, and between the dances the 
band in the garden played operatic and other music, while 
the guests wandered about in the grounds, which were lit 
up gayly with Chinese lanterns, while the moon shone 
down on all, producing a weird and lovely effect. 

Just before entering the ball-room Rose had a letter 
given her, which, by some mistake, had not reached her 
hands at the time the others were delivered. It was from 


124 


FEANCIS. 


Geoffrey, and presumably a long one. She waited till her 
first dance with Major Philipson, and when they strolled 
out into the garden afterwards asked if he would think 
her unsociable if she were to read it. 

The soft air blew her pretty hair about ; her cheek was 
a trifle flushed with dancing. A hundred eyes followed 
admiringly the white-robed figure as it went down the 
path. 

They stopped in a quiet place by one of the lanterns, 
and Eose opened the envelope. The band was playing 
‘^Carmen/’ and she listened a few minutes in silence 
before beginning her letter. 

never can enjoy music and do anything else at the 
same time,” she said. For, you see, Eose did not flirt. 

When she began to read, her companion’s eyes wandered 
for a few moments in other directions. When they came 
back to their favorite resting-place he started and sprang 
forward, for he thought Eose was about to fall ; but she 
supported herself with her arm. 

This was what Geoffrey’s letter contained : When I 
was at home, the other day, I thought I would look up 
that young fellow Greye, and I went over to Abbotstoke 
to see him. I was told at the works he was ill, and had 
not been there for about a week. I found, on further in- 
quiries, he had been looking very seedy for a long time, 
and was supposed to be in a bad way altogether, and it had 
ended in his getting congestion of the lungs, with some 
kind of low fever. I had some difiiculty in finding him, 
but succeeded at last through the help of an old Scotch- 
man, who seems the only person who has ever been allowed 
inside his room. He told me Greye would certainly object 
to my visit ; but I took matters into my own hands and 
went up. I never in my life saw such an awful hole as 
the place he has got into, enough to give one all the fevers 
in creation, I should think ! Imagine a filthy little room 


ROSE FINDS OUT. 


125 


where one can almost touch the ceiling with one^s hand, 
the window looking out on to a blank wall at about a foot 
distance, and absolutely nothing in the way of furniture 
beyond a table, a couple of chairs, and a bed one would not 
give a dog to sleep on. It was a bitterly cold day, the 
thermometer considerably below freezing-point, and he had 
no tire in his room — or anything, in fact ! He says some 
of the people in the house look in upon him occasionally, 
and Macgregor pays him a visit every morning and even- 
ing and has offered to sit up with him at nights, only 
Greye would not hear of it. He seems to be acting the 
regular Good Samaritan. I can’t help thinking our friend 
is a little ^touched.’ He will not allow any one to write 
to his people, and made me promise not to let them know 
about his illness. He said he would not for the world have 
his mother know the state that he was in. How on earth 
he has got into these straits I am sure I haven’t a notion, 
but he simply refuses to let any one help him in any way. 
He says he shall manage to pull through it somehow, and 
seemed quite cheery over the whole affair, though he was 
hardly able to speak, couldn’t eat anything, and had nothing 
to drink except some cold water out of a repulsive-looking 
tin mug. In fact, he had not even that until Macgregor 
came in and got him some, and he said he had been almost 
parched with thirst for hours. He apologized for the state 
of the room, which he told me he used to clean out him- 
self when he was well, as hislandlady, whoever she is, never 
appears to touch it. He seemed awfully grateful to me 
for my visit, after I had set his mind at rest by promising 
to keep all I had seen to myself. I had a talk with Mac- 
gregor when we came out. He thinks Greye’s brain is all 
right, but says that he has got some idea into his head and 
is resolved on sticking to his present way of living until 
he has carried it out. Of course, if it is sheer obstinacy 
on his part, there is nothing to be done for him; but it is 


126 


FEANCIS. 


an awful pity. Greye is confident himself that he is going 
to recover, hut I shouldn’t think there was much chance 
of it from what I saw ; and Macgregor tells me the parish 
doctor who had been called in has not much hope. He 
says he is young, and that is in his favor ; but his whole 
constitution had been so pulled down beforehand that there 
was nothing to fall back upon, and he was getting rapidly 
worse.” 

^^Oan I get you anything. Miss Caldicott ? You would 
like to see Lady Lester, perhaps?” 

‘‘ Ho, thank you. I — shall go into the house.” And 
again they walked between the rows of Chinese lanterns 
among the gay figures. A young man rushed forward to 
ask Kose if she had a dance left, but he fell back as he 
caught sight of her face, and a rumor soon went round 
the assembly that Miss Caldicott had been taken suddenly 
ill. 

With the letter tight clasped in her hand, and with an 
indescribable sickening at the heart, Kose entered the hotel 
and went straight up to her room. She locked the outer 
door and the one leading into her aunt’s room, and then 
threw herself on her knees, with her arms stretched over 
her head and her face buried in the counterpane. 
****** 

The next morning the news was passed from mouth to 
mouth that Miss Caldicott, taking advantage of the escort 
afforded by a family who were that day returning to Eng- 
land, was going to leave Cannes suddenly and go home. 

“ What is the meaning of this ?” Major Philipson asked, 
as he held out his hand and Kose laid hers in it, to say 
good-bye. 

“ It means that I have found out what I promised to 
tell you,” she said, her sad face glowing for a moment as she 
spoke ; “and I love him,” with a passionate tremor in her 
voice, “I love him with all my heart.” 


THE FOURTH WORK OF MERCY. 


127 


His eyes were fixed upon her as she said it, and he knew 
now that there was no more hope for him, or for any other 
man. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE FOURTH WORK OF MERCY, 

Ruin’d love, when it is built anew. 

Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. 

Shakespeare's Sonnets, cxix. 

Farewell heat and welcome frost. 

Merchant of Venice, xi, 7. 

There is perhaps nothing so utterly melancholy as a 
long journey when one is sufiering from some keen anxiety, 
which may end on our arrival in the certainty of an over- 
whelming grief. The many hours of travel which had to 
be gone through before she could reach England, seemed 
to Kose unending and nearly unbearable. 

The little humorous incidents, always so plentiful upon 
such occasions, had in them for her something positively 
ghastl}^ The life and gayety all about her, the smiling 
aspect of nature, the talk and laughter of her fellow-travel- 
lers, seemed to mock her. Who that has had a similar 
experience but can testify to its bitterness ? 

One picture was for ever presenting itself to her mind. 
Francis, her Francis — so she now called him to herself — 
lying ill, alone, uncared for, sufiering, it might be dying; 
she could not bring her imagination to go further and say, 
it might be dead — and all for her ! 

The Burtons were, happily for Eose, making their jour- 
ney as quickly as possible. They left Cannes on Wednes- 
day morning, travelled all that day and night, and early 
on Thursday reached Paris, where they only waited for 
breakfast. 


128 


FRANCIS. 


Lady Lester had telegraphed to Mr. Caldicott, and he 
met his daughter at Dover. 

^^My dear child, what has brought you home so sud- 
denly?” he asked. “ Don’t cry, my darling !” for at last 
the strain was too much for Kose, and she gave way and 
fell into an agony of weeping. “ Whatever the cause may 
be, I shall not quarrel with it, as it has brought my Kose- 
bud back to me three months before I expected to have 
her.” 

‘‘Miss Caldicott is very tired, I am afraid,” said Mrs. 
Burton. “We have made our journey positively a 

terre, and not stopped a night on the way. And I could 
hardly induce her to eat anything at the huffetsJ^ 

She rattled on obligingly, introducing as many French 
words and phrases into her conversation as possible, while 
Rose had time to recover. When they were fairly in the 
train alone together, Mr. Caldicott awaited his daughter’s 
explanation. 

“ You remember Francis Greye, father, the young me- 
chanic ? ” 

After a moment’s hesitation he replied : 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“And how he turned out afterwards to be a gentle- 
man ? ” 

“ Yes ” — this time more doubtfully. 

“He is very ill, father; they think he is dying.” 

“ Ah, yes, your brother was telling me something about 
it. Very sad — very sad indeed ! ” 

“Oh, father, he’s not — not ?” she seized his arm. 

“Not dead, at least that I have heard of. But, my dear 
child, you do not mean to say it is the illness of this 
young man that has brought you back to England ? ” 

And then Rose told her father everything ; which took 
him so completely and utterly aback, that he found no 
words in which to make her answer or comment. 


THE FOUKTH WOEK OF MERCY. 


129 


‘‘You won^t tell the boys or any one else about it, will 
you, father ? ’’ she said, imploringly. “ I do not want 
anybody to know of it except you/’ 

“No, my dear child. No, no, no!” 

And that was all Mr. Caldicott found to say to the 
announcement of a possible future son-in-law. It was 
late at night before Kose and her father reached home. 
Had it been possible, she would have rushed off at once 
to Abbotstoke ; but this, she knew, was out of the ques- 
tion, and she submitted to go to bed, where, contrary to 
her expectations, fatigue got the better of her anxiety, and 
she fell into a sound sleep. 

Eose’s plans were all matured. She had had time 
enough for working them out on the journey, and knew 
exactly what she intended to do. As early as might be 
on Saturday morning, she drove over to Alderley Farm, 
and astonished Mrs. Webster by her appearance at the 
door. 

“ Miss Caldicott ! I thought you were away in France. 
Come in,” and she showed her into the parlor. 

“I have just arrived at home,” Eose answered, trying 
to keep her voice steady. “ I have come to see you be- 
cause I thought you — might be able to tell me 

“ Yes, yes. Sit down, now do. Miss ; you look fit to 
drop! It is about Mr. Greye you came to ask me, no 
doubt. He is very bad indeed, they say. I was just 
going to see him now, when you came in. It was only 
last night I heard anything about this illness,” she went 
on, “ when a man came to the door — by his manner of 
speaking I should say a Scotchman — and he asked me if I 
could come down and see a young gentleman as was an 
old lodger of mine. He was very ill, he said, with some 
kind of a fever, and he had turned delirious ; and there 
wasn’t a soul to see after him except just the women in 
the house, poor things, that would look in on him every 
9 


130 


FRANCIS. 


now and then.” Mrs. Webster’s eyes were full of tears. 

He gave me a sad account of him, Miss. I have been 
feeling quite upset all the night. It was nigh upon ten 
then, and my husband would not hear of my going into 
Abbotstoke at that hour, and I have just been hurrying 
through things a bit that I might walk over there this 
morning.” 

I will drive you in,” said Eose. Oh, put on your 
things at once.” 

But before she had left the room she called her back. 

^‘Had he been delirious long? ” she asked. 

^^All the evening he had been quite wandering, the 
man said. He was saying your name over and over again. 
Miss, calling for you to come to him. You’ll excuse my 
telling you ? ” she added. 

Eose had turned away to hide her face, and Mrs. Web- 
ster left her quietly and went up-stairs. She put on her 
bonnet and shawl and her walking boots with as much 
expedition as possible, yet it seemed to Eose as if she were 
never going to appear again. She could not sit still in 
her chair, but walked up and down, and examined the 
pictures, and looked out of the window, and opened the 
books on the table and shut them again, and then she 
went to the front door and waited there, resolved to be 
patient till she had counted through a hundred. Just as 
she came to ninety-nine, Mrs. Webster descended the 
stairs. 

They drove into Abbotstoke almost in silence, the pony 
being urged on at a pace to which his usual rapid trot was 
only a leisurely amble. When they reached the town, 
Eose told the groom to put up at one of the hotels, where, 
if she kept him waiting long enough, he must have his 
dinner ; and she and Mrs. Webster turned down into the 
street to which the latter had been directed by Macgregor 
in his visit the night before. 


THE FOUKTH WORK OF MERCY. 


131 


It was a raw February day, and a mixture of rain and 
sleet had begun to fall. The whole place looked peculiarly 
black, muddy, and generally unattractive, most of all the 
back street, composed of mean and dirty buildings popu- 
lated by a ragged and squalid throng, which they had just 
entered. 

You are sure that this is it ? ” asked Eose, hoping 
there might be some mistake. 

“ Yes, that is what the Scotchman said. It is down at 
the other end, a house on the right-hand side.’"* 

They reached the door and knocked. It was opened 
by a middle-aged man, a rough-looking individual, not of 
the cleanest or of the most civil. 

Greye ? Ah, he’s the young fellow that’s down with 
fever up two pair back. He’s pretty bad, I can tell you — 
went on like silly all last night.” 

He gave the necessary directions for finding Francis’s 
room, and, after an ineffectual attempt to see something 
of Bose’s face through her thick black veil, retired into 
his own premises and shut the door. 

^^Go up, Mrs. Webster, and see him. I will wait here. 
Do not be long,” Eose said. 

She was only kept waiting a few minutes. Then her 
friend came down. 

How is he ? ” she asked, eagerly. 

He is alive, poor young gentleman, and that is all you 
can say for him. And I never did see such a place in all 
my life. It ain’t fit to put a cat into.” 

^^Is he delirious still ?” 

Oh, quite. Miss— just talking to himself, and he didn’t 
take any notice when I went up and spoke to him.” 

If I were to go up he would not know me, then ? 
Are you quite sure ? Then I will come.” 

Eose mounted the stairs with a beating heart, and 
paused before the door. 


132 


FRANCIS. 


‘'Go in again/’ she said, "and see if his mind is wan- 
dering still.” 

"He is quite unconscious,” was Mrs. Webster’s report, 
and then Kose entered. 

It was a wretched place, to be sure — worse even than 
her brother’s description had led her to imagine it. 
Scarcely did a ray of sunshine ever come into the room, 
and, to-day being dark and gloomy, a kind of heavy twi- 
light prevailed. Through this Eose saw one object, and 
only one, the form of the sick boy, which tossed restlessly 
from side to side upon the miserable bed. Francis had 
thrown his arms over his head, and was talking rapidly to 
himself in an excited tone. Presently he cried out : “ I 
have kept to it, Kose ; I told you I would ! Where is she ? 
Tell her to come to me ! Eose, my Kose ! ” His voice 
grew weak, and had in it a tone of hopeless pleading. 
" Where is she ? My own Eose ! ” Then he let his arms 
fall back on the counterpane with a weary sigh of exhaust- 
ion which was very pathetic, and lay quite still, worn out 
for a time. 

Kose went and knelt down beside the low bed, taking 
the hot thin hand which lay upon the coverlet between her 
own. 

“ Francis,” she whispered; "Francis.” 

His eyes rested on her face for a moment, but there was 
in them no gleam of consciousness. She laid her hand 
upon his burning forehead and stroked back his soft, di- 
sheveled hair. Then her pent-up feelings would no more 
be controlled, and she cried for some time unrestrainedly. 

When Kose had managed to dry her tears, the practical 
side of the matter presented itself to her mind. 

"We must do something for him,” she said, rising to 
her feet. " The room must not be left in this horrible 
state ! Let us light a fire and get a pail of water and some 
scrubbing-brushes, and clean it out.” 


THE FOURTH WORK OF MERCY. 


133 


While Mrs. Webster went down-stairs to fetch the neces- 
sary articles, Eose contrived to make Francis swallow a 
little of the milk which she had brought, with a variety of 
other things in a basket, from home. 

“ This isnT fit work for you, Miss,^"* said the farmer’s 
wife, as she returned with another woman, the two between 
them carrying materials for a fire and a supply of hot 
water and soap. 

Without answering, Eose took off her bonnet and cloak, 
pinned back her skirt and rolled up her sleeves. Her 
scientific knowledge availed her so much, that the first fire 
she had ever laid was soon burning cheerfully. Next she 
set to work to scrub, and very vigorously she did it, to the 
no small astonishment of the boards, which had seldom 
met with such treatment before. 

While she was thus occupied, and Mrs. Webster cleaning 
the furniture, a voice was heard at the door, saying : 

This is the room. Where is he?” 

Eose recognized it as that of the clergyman of the par- 
ish, with whom she was not quite unacquainted. 

Don’t tell him who I am,” she had just time to say 
before the door opened and Mr. Warburton entered, a 
middle-aged man of benevolent aspect. 

Ah, I am glad to see some one looking after this poor 
young fellow,” he said. I hear he has been doing very 
badly,” as he went up to the bed. He is quite worn to 
skin and bone ; isn’t he, poor boy ?” 

Yes, sir ; he has had a hard time of it,” said Mrs. Web- 
ster. never knew that he was ill till yesterday, or I 
should have been here before. He is an old lodger of 
mine, sir,” she added, in explanation. 

“And that girl ?” as he turned towards Eose, who had 
her back towards him and continued to scrub. 

“ She is a young woman that has come in to help me to 
clean.” 


134 


FKANCIS. 


^^Oh. You appear to be doing your work very thor- 
oughly, my good girl.” 

Scrub, scrub. 

little deaf?” suggested Mr. Warburton. 

‘^She is a good cleaner, though,” answered Mrs. Web- 
ster, evasively; “and perhaps you will excuse her going 
on, for we have a deal to do here, as you see, and I ought 
to be home again before it gets too late.” 

“You will not be able to stay with him then ?” 

“ I wish I could, sir. I shall come in as often as I can 
to see him, but I have a family at home, and it is not al- 
ways I can be spared.” 

“ I shall give orders to the parish nurse to come to look 
after him, then. I wish that I had known about this poor 
boy before ; but there are so many sick people on our lists 
just now, that we cannot go round to all the houses as 
often as we should like. However, Mrs. Dawson is just 
disengaged, so she will be able to take care of him, and we 
never had a better nurse.” 

He asked a few more questions, went up and looked at 
Francis again, said his face was familiar to him, he thought 
that he must have seen it in church, and finally left with 
a loud ‘‘Good-morning ” to Eose, who, unable to continue 
at her corner forever, had turned to cleaning the window, 
and was still presenting her back to him. 

When the clergyman had gone Eose had a long laugh 
with Mrs. Webster, which did her all the good in the world, 
and she went on with her cleaning with renewed vigor. 
She stopped every now and then in her work to give 
Francis some cooling drink and bathe his forehead, but 
otherwise did not pause until — with the exception of the 
walls, which could not then be re-papered, and the ceiling, 
which could not then be whitewashed — the room was posi- 
tively free from grime. 

Eose’s basket was a large one, and underneath the grapes 


THE FOURTH WORK OF MERCY. 


135 


and various invalid luxuries she had brought there was a 
table-cloth which had belonged to her own room, and there 
were white blinds and curtains for the window. When 
these had been placed in their respective localities, and 
Eose had made a journey to the shops and returned with 
some pots of flowering plants, which were placed on the 
window-seat, and an engraving which was hung up oppo- 
site the bed, so that when Francises eyes opened to con- 
sciousness they might see something more pleasing before 
them than a blank, dirty wall, the room, with the fire 
burning cheerfully in the small grate, looked as though a 
magician'’s wand had passed over it. 

The parish nurse made her appearance in the afternoon. 
She came in first when Eose was doing her shopping ; but 
Mrs. Webster was prepared for her, and had the five-pound 
note, which had been given her for the purpose, ready to 
present, with the request that she would do all in her power 
for her patient, and be sure that he had everything which 
was ordered for him or that he appeared to require. 

‘‘ It doesiiT seem to me he is likely to want for much 
just at present,’^ said Mrs. Dawson, with a smile, looking 
at the contents of Eose’s basket, which were now spread 
out upon the table. That is the way. When people get 
too ill to swallow a thing, they have all the delicacies you 
can think of sent to them. Now, if just half that was 
done beforehand, while they could eat and be thankful for 
it, many is the illness that might be nipped in the bud. 
Well, as you are here now, I will come in again and be 
with him at half-past five;’’ and she departed, after a long 
look at the patient, and the ejaculation that everybody else 
had made, Poor boy ! ” 

A little after five Macgregor came in, and appeared in 
no small measure amazed at the transformation which he 
beheld. He promised to remain with Francis until Mrs. 
Dawson returned. 


136 


FRANCIS. 


Rose was by this time enveloped in her cloak, with her 
veil concealing her face. 

‘‘A young woman that has been helping me to clean, 
Mrs. Webster again explained; and then she went into 
the passage with him to help with some furniture which 
had been ordered, and which was with some difficulty 
dragged up the narrow staircase. 

The “young woman” took the cup from the table for 
the last time, raised the sick boy’s head, and moistened 
his lips. 

^‘Tell her I have kept to my word,” he was saying; 
^‘you will tell her that, won’t you, if I should die?” 

Rose found the impulse too strong for her. She bent 
over him and kissed his brow. 

Then, putting down her veil quickly, she hastened out 
of the room, and, as the new bed and the new comfortable 
chair were being dragged into the room, followed Mrs. 
Webster down the stairs. 


CHAPTER XV. 

AFTERWARDS. 

I have done penance for contemning love. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona. 
Love comforteth like sunshine after rain. 

Venus and Adonis. 


Francis did not die. 

The crisis of his illness was reached on the twenty-first 
day, and from that time he began to amend. 

Wlien he awoke to consciousness, the altered appearance 
of his room astonished him not a little. It was clean, it 
was tidy; it bore the unmistakable marks of feminine 
handiwork ! He was in a clean and comfortable bed ! 


AFTERWAKDS. 


137 


There were flowers in the window, growing ; cut flowers 
in a vase upon the table ! His favorite picture, Sir F. 
Leighton’s ‘‘ Wedded,” hung on the wall before his eyes 1 

Moreover, he had a vision — a kind of dreamy recollec- 
tion, which grew clearer the more he thought about it — 
of a lovely form which had knelt beside his bed; of a 
lovely face, full of tenderness, bent over him, with eyes 
that were wet with tears ; of a gentle voice that had whis- 
pered Francis ” ; of the pressure of two soft lips upon 
his brow. 

There was some one sitting beside him now ; not she, 
however. The plump form and kindly face of Mrs. Daw- 
son it was that met his eyes. 

As soon as he was allowed to talk, Francis asked if any 
one else had been in his room while he was ill. 

“ The doctor has been in every day,” she answered, 

and the clergyman ; and at the beginning of your illness 
some of these women in the house came in to sit with you. 
And your friend Macgregor comes night and morning 
regular to see how you are.” 

Who has been at work at my room ? ” 

Ah, that was another friend of yours — Mrs. Webster. 
I found her here when I was first sent to see after you ; 
and she had been at it, she told me, for hours.” 

‘‘Did she do all this herself?” as his eyes travelled 
round the room. 

“ Yes ; she and a young woman who came in to help 
her clean.” 

“And what was the young woman’s name ?” 

“I don’t know. I did not see her myself. Mr. War- 
burton — he’s the rector, you know — mentioned she seemed 
a little deaf, but she was working very hard.” 

“ I remember perfectly ! She scrubbed the floor and 
she cleaned the windows — and lighted the fire,” he added, 
thoughtfully. 


138 


PEANCIS. 


Well, now, I have heard of people that did recollect 
afterwards what went on when they was delirious. Mr. 
Smith was speaking of a case of it just the other day, hut 
you are the first I ever came across myself!’^ 

And Francis lay and thought about the young woman 
who had scrubbed. 

Throughout this time fortune, combined with his own 
foresight, had, in one important particular, favored Francis 
in the performance of his vow. None of his family or 
friends, with, the simple exception of Geoffrey Caldicott, 
had heard anything of his illness. As long as he was 
able to put pen to paper, he had answered his mother’s 
letters; and before she had manifested any unusual 
anxiety he had contrived to write again. 

“Francis’s hand is getting worse than ever,” she re- 
marked on reading it, “though we had thought it really 
was improving a little while ago. And he never will tell 
one any news ! ” 

But nothing of the real state of affairs suggested itself 
to her mind. Had he been longer delirious, had Mr. 
Warburton found him out sooner, had any of his brothers 
come down to look him up at Abbotstoke, had one of the 
hundred untoward-like events which might have occurred 
really done so, the truth would have been out, and the 
keeping of his resolve have become practically an impossi- 
bility. 

Nay, more. Had his recovery appeared to be retarded 
by the meanness of his quarters, as might reasonably have 
been expected — and as it certainly would have been but 
for the fact that his room was high up and within the 
reach of the fresh upper air — it would have become a 
necessity to move to others ; but as it was, he made as 
rapid progress towards recovery as could under any cir- 
cumstances have been expected. 

As Francis grew better, he found that his case had be- 


AFTERWARDS. 


139 


come known among a certain class of people in whom it 
had aroused much interest and sympathy, all believing 
him, as Rose had once done, to be a genuine poor work- 
ing-man; and he had a good many visitors to enliven his 
solitude when Mrs. Dawson gave up her continual attend- 
ance at his bedside, and only came to wait on him at cer- 
tain intervals. 

Clergymen came to see him, and tried to find out if he 
had not seen better days, but finding him taciturn upon 
the subject respected his reserve, and only expressed their 
surmises on the subject to each other. 

District- visitors came to see him, and brought him 
milk-puddings in jam-pots, and tracts with startling titles 
and opening anecdotes, ending with a string of detached 
texts, and tried to persuade him to join the coal and cloth- 
ing clubs and provident society, and pointed out how 
necessary it was to provide against illness when one was 
well and in full work. 

And his fellow-lodgers came to see him, and talked to 
each other a good deal before him about the severe illnesses 
which they had witnessed, and the cases in which people 
had died of the after effects of fever ; and said that Fran- 
cis looked consumptive, and recalled many fatal instances 
of lung disease, and wanted to shut his window, and left 
his room in a very stuffy condition. 

And good people of a nondescript order came to see 
him, and gave him long discourses upon his exceeding sin- 
fulness, and explained to him that his present miseries 
were doubtless a just retribution for his twenty years of 
wickedness; and lectured him, a little inappropriately, 
upon the evils of intemperance, and tried to induce him 
to join the Blue Ribbon Army. 

And the rector’s wife came to see him, and put on her 
spectacles and read him a sermon out of a book dressed in 
brown paper, and gave him some grapes which tasted very 


140 


FRANCIS. 


much of the sawdust in which they had come over from 
Spain, and a shiny black prayer-book that had cost eight- 
pence, and asked him if he had been used to attend Sun- 
day-school, and suggested that he should join, when re- 
covered, her Monday evening classes for destitute lads. 

Francis spoke very little indeed on these occasions, 
being alike desirous not to betray himself and to hear 
everything that his visitors had to say. He was glad, 
afterwards, that upon one occasion at least he had not 
been more communicative ; for, some time later, happen- 
ing in languid curiosity to turn over the pages of a Bap- 
tist magazine lying upon a bookseller’s counter, he found 
a graphic description of the visit paid to him by one of 
his worthy friends, and the conversation, principally mono- 
syllabic on his part, which had then taken place. 

As Francis got better, he was able to leave his bed and 
sit in his new arm-chair, feeling a little shaky and forlorn 
at first, but with his strength returning gradually and a 
daily increasing appetite. Mrs. Webster was now anxious 
to carry him off to the farm and look after him there, but 
he did not think it would be consistent with the keeping 
to his twelvemonth’s penance to accept her invitation, 
and, having weathered through the worst part of his year, 
it may well be supposed that he had no intention of fail- 
ing now. 

One thing troubled Francis. A load of debts hung 
about his neck to which the liabilities of Sir Walter Scott, 
after his publishers’ ruin, were as nothing — taking into 
consideration, that is to say, the power he had of repaying 
them. His landlady’s bill came to fifteen shillings — that 
was for the room alone ; then there would be coals, wash- 
ing, and other etceteras, which he calculated could hardly 
amount to less than a pound. His food had not cost him 
much, certainly, for supplies of invalid diet made their ap- 
pearance daily. These Francis never could trace to their 


AFTERWARDS. 


141 


source ; they came, he was always vaguely told, from 
“the ladies,^’ and which of these ladies, Mrs. Dawson in- 
formed him with perfect truth, she herself did not know. 

But how were his debts to be paid ? The question 
pressed anxiety continually upon his mind, and worried 
him not a little. They must and should be paid some- 
how, and he cast over the means in his head. 

At length it occurred to Francis that his old pastime of 
wood-carving was one which might be turned to account, 
and bring him in a few shillings at least. He pawned his 
umbrella and bought some wood, rubbed up his rusty tools 
and began. He could only do a little at a time at first, 
and over that little Mrs. Dawson shook her head. Mrs. 
Webster, too, scolded him very severely when she came in 
one day and found him leaning back, exhausted, with a 
block of wood rough-hewn into the shapes of pre-Adamite 
dragons unknown to the geologist, meandering among 
fruits and flowers of an equally unusual character, and a 
little heap of chips on the floor. 

But the next day an order came for that same piece of 
work, and also for some others of a like description, with 
which he was on no account to hurry, as the purchaser 
was just going abroad and would have no use for them 
until she returned to England in May. On account of 
her approaching departure she wished to pay for the things 
beforehand, and Francis found himself in possession of a 
ten -pound note. This paid off all his debts, and left him 
with suflScient in hand to support him until he should be 
strong enough to return to his work. He was able to have 
a fire every day now, and to put as many lumps of sugar 
as he liked in his tea ! He worked a little too hard at his 
carving, of course — that was his nature which nothing 
would ever alter ; but it was pleasant work seeing the 
delicate forms of wild-rose blossoms and the graceful 
curves of their branches growing continually beneath his 


142 


FEANCIS. 


skillful fingers, and the days seemed less tedious with this 
congenial occupation. As soon as he was able to leave the 
house Francis was strongly advised to change his lodgings, 
and, with the experience he had had since leaving them, 
he thought that he could not do better than return to the 
Simpsons — their room, as Macgregor informed him, being 
vacant again. The friendship between the old man and 
the young had deepened, latterly, into something very 
strong and true. G’est dans le mallieur qu^on connait ses 
vrais amis; and Francis says, with truth, that he has 
never had a better friend, or one whom he more deeply 
values, than this uneducated Scotchman. 

Did I talk a lot of rubbish when I was ill? he asked 
Macgregor one day. 

“ Not more than you would have done if you had been 
in your right mind and said out what was in your head, I 
dare say,^’ the old man answered, with his quiet smile. 

You talked a deal about a certain young lady, and kept 
calling for her to come to you the whole of one night.” 

Francis colored a little. 

You know all about it, then ! ” he said, with a laugh. 
^‘1 hope you will be present at our wedding.” 

‘^Are you going to bring her back here?’’ inquired 
Macgregor, drily. 

‘^Not exactly!” And then Francis gave his old friend 
a glimpse at the state of his affairs. 

I thought there was a woman at the bottom of it,” 
was his only comment. When there is mischief brew- 
ing, I find there always is.” 

In the meantime Kose had been, we have seen, silently 
at work for Francis’s benefit. Mrs. Webster kept her con- 
fidence admirably, as she had done that with which he had 
once entrusted her concerning his own status in society, 
which she had solemnly promised never to reveal to Eose. 
She contrived that priyate information should reach her 


AFTERWARDS. 


143 


of every stage of her lover's recovery, and that the things 
sent from the Hall should come to him as anonymous 
gifts. To say that Francis suspected nothing would he 
going too far, hut Mrs. Webster certainly told him noth- 
ing and gossiped about the affair with none of her friends. 
The order for the carving, even, was given in another 
name than that of Miss Caldicott, although Francis had 
not much difficulty in seeing through the thin disguise. 

It was a bright day in early spring when Francis first 
breathed the outside air, with no little thankfulness after 
his long confinement in one small sunless chamber. He man- 
aged to walk as far as the Simpsons', and the face of 'Liza 
had to him to-day something pleasant in its familiarity. 

“ I hear you have been very ill, sir," she said, after cor- 
dially shaking hands, ‘‘ and I am glad you are able to 
walk again. You look tired, though. Sit down, and I 
will make you a cup of tea." 

The cottage, with its clean brick-floor, the geraniums 
in the window, the placid puss curled up before the fire, 
and 'Liza’s old jay chirping in its cage against the wall> 
everything just as he had left it with the homely aspect it 
had always worn, now seemed by no means so unattract- 
ive as formerly. Francis was a liberated captive ; for six 
weeks he had not seen the sun, save for a few sickly rays 
which lit up for a few minutes a patch of wall opposite his 
window when the afternoon was bright, an event for which 
he had looked out with a curious eagerness. Nor had he 
felt the sky above him and the breeze blowing in his face, 
and what had seemed a matter of course to him all his life 
before, came now as joys that he could hardly appreciate 
enough. He drew in long breaths of the sweet whole- 
some air, and his eyes rested with a simple calm delight 
on the sunshine which fell upon the -cottage garden, where 
pale primroses and fragile snowdrops were all the flower- 
world had as yet to show. 


144 


FEANCIS. 


How is Mrs. Simpson?” he inquired. And ’Liza in- 
formed him that her mother was but poorly, and times 
had been rather hard with them all the winter. For the 
last month they had been without a lodger, and had found 
it no easy matter to make both ends meet. 

“ I have come to ask if you will take me in again,” said 
Francis. I want to give up my room in Fladgate Street 
on Friday, and I am sure I shall be better out here than 
in the town.” 

The matter was soon arranged, for Mrs. Simpson, when 
’Liza went up to her room and consulted her, had nothing 
to say against it. The last lodger had been anything but 
a still young man ; and times had been, when John Pratt 
returned from the White Lion ” at the small hours of 
the morning, and came swearing up the stairs, that she 
had regretted the quiet Mr. Greye. 

On the following Saturday, accordingly, Francis took 
up his quarters again at the cottage. It seemed to him 
that his room had grown since he had last been in it, and 
Mrs. Simpson had certainly become more conciliatory and 
less objectionable. Perhaps a mutual sympathy drew 
these two antipatica souls a little together: each knew 
how to feel for the other in aches and pains, and long, 
sleepless, unrestful nights. Francis’s gift of sympathy 
had, beyond question, widened and deepened to a very 
great extent in the course of his late experiences, although 
he himself was perhaps hardly aware of the fact, and put 
down the improvement in their mutual relations to the 
change wrought in his hostess’s character by the influence 
of Kose. For Miss Caldicott, he was told, had of late paid 
several visits to the cottage ; and both mother and daugh- 
ter were sufficiently enthusiastic about her even to satisfy 
him, Mrs. Simpson averring that she had never known 
such a heavenly young lady. The port-wine that Miss 
Caldicott had brought was produced, and it was not with- 


AFTERWARDS. 


145 


out difficulty Francis got off being compelled to share it 
with the invalid. Miss Oaldicott it was who had crocheted 
the shawl Mrs. Simpson wore about her shoulders, and 
Miss Oaldicott had brought Eliza some seeds to sow in her 
garden, and had promised to send her some plants. 

’Liza was out when she came to see me last time,” 
Mrs. Simpson went on ; and Miss Oaldicott had brought 
some soup for me. Well, nothing would do but she should 
get a saucepan, and warm it herself on the fire. It was 
real beautiful ” — alluding not to the action but to its re- 
sult. And she got the loaf out of the cupboard, and cut 
off a bit of bread and toasted it; and she did everything 
so nice and handy like, you would have thought she had 
been used to it all her life.” 

Francis was never tired of hearing about Eose’s sayings 
and doings; so there was actually conversation which 
gave pleasure all round, and Mrs. Simpson’s mind was 
diverted, for the present at any rate, from her troubles at 
the hospital and all her ensuing pains. Miss Oaldicott 
had gone abroad now to rejoin her aunt, Francis was in- 
formed; but whenever she came home she was coming to 
see them at the cottage again. 

With the change to purer air, Francis gi’ew rapidly 
stronger and better ; and as health came back to him it 
came in a new form — as something he had never known 
before. His illness had entirely altered his constitution, 
the doctors told him, and for the first time in his exist- 
ence he might be said to be thoroughly well. A new life 
ran in his veins, a new vigor actuated his frame. The old 
fits of depression, the constant headaches — which he had 
learnt to regard as a matter of course — had absolutely for- 
saken him. He had learnt what it was to feel hungry — 
not half-starved, which in the first few months of his pen- 
ance had been by no means an uncommon occurrence, but 
healthily and happily hungry. After a little while he 
10 


146 


lEANCIS. 


came back from his work as fresh as he had gone to it, or 
with only the smallest sensation of fatigue; and he did 
not require the assurances given him by all wlio knew 
him that he was another being. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

WORTHY FRUITS. 

I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream. And make a pastime of each 
weary step 

Till the last step have brought me to my love. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona. 

Rose joined her aunt in Paris when Francis was fairly 
out of danger, and, as she learnt, rapidly recovering his 
strength ; and life seemed to go on from the same point 
where she had dropped it on her sudden departure from 
Cannes. But in her own mind there was a vast difference. 
She went out into society as before, and was as much ad- 
mired as ever ; but her heart was now the whole time 
— not in occasional dreamy moments only — in a certain 
dirty, hard-working town. Among all the lovely sights 
of fair France — of Paris, fairest of all in the young spring- 
tide — her desire was towards the grimy streets,, the smoke- 
laden air of Abbotstoke. How long the year seemed — 
the year that must be borne before, in honesty and honor, 
Francis might claim her for his own ! Temptation sore 
seized Rose at moments to absolve him from his promise, 
but maiden modesty restrained her, added to her own 
sense of what it was right for him to do in the matter. 
Moreover, she was not certain that he would have accepted 
her absolution. So she remained silent. 

But though she never wrote him a line or sent him the 
smallest message, her sympathy was with Francis the 


WORTHY FRUITS. 


147 


whole day long, at every hour of the day. At six in the 
morning — if she happened to be awake at six — she thought 
of him beginning work, and wondered if he had been as 
sleepy three-quarters of an hour ago as she was at that 
moment. Throughout the forenoon she tried to picture 
to herself the interior of Marsden’s, and imagine what 
was Francis’s particular occupation just then. At twelve 
she accompanied him back to the cottage ; at one she re- 
turned with him to his work. Throughout her own lazy, 
pleasant afternoons she imagined him toiling, and won- 
dered if he was growing very tired; and felt a positive 
relief when the clock struck five, and she knew that his 
work was over for the day. And by degrees — very shyly 
at first, however — Kose began to think what their life to- 
gether would be — to picture to herself her days as they 
would be spent with him, for him ; how pretty, with her 
paint-brush and her needle, she would make the little 
house which they would speak about as ours, that when 
he came back from his daily work all might be as beauti- 
ful, as pleasant and refreshing, as her heart, and brain, 
and fingers could make it. He loved beautiful things : 
everything should be beautiful at home for him. 

But such sweet reveries were not enough for Rose ; she 
must be doing something now to give form, as it were, to 
her sympathy, and she took to rising at an early hour and 
practicing diligently from six till eight, pleased to be at 
the same time sharing Francis’s hours of labor and pre- 
paring pleasure for him in the future. For she knew that 
he loved music. 

In May, Lady Lester and her party returned to England, 
and Rose came home to Mary cross. 

Well, my love, I hope you are not going to run away 
from us again for a long time,” said Mrs. Caldicott, hold- 
ing her niece’s face between her two old hands, as she im- 
printed a kiss on each cheek. 


148 


FRANCIS. 


Not to run away very far, aunty, at any rate,'’’ she said. 
‘‘'I have had enough excitement and gayety to last me — a 
lifetime.” 

But you have enjoyed it, dearest ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I have enjoyed it. And now I am enjoying 
being back again at home.” 

“You are not altered a bit, Kose, unless perhaps a little 
in the face.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” she inquired, anxiously. 

You have grown more beautiful, my child. I am not 
afraid of making my Kose vain,” she added; “that is a 
fault for people with blinder eyes and more ungrateful 
hearts than yours.” 

“Am I really growing prettier?” she said eagerly, as 
she ran over and looked at herself in the glass. “ How 
glad I am ! But it is not for myself, aunty — no, no, it is 
not for myself.” 

“Come and tell me all about it,” exclaimed Mrs. Caldi- 
cott. “My Rose has. a secret, then, which I am not to 
know ? ” 

“You shall know some time, aunty, and you shall be 
told the first of all ; but do not say a word about what you 
have guessed to Uncle John. There is nothing to hear, 
indeed, until the 22d of J uly.” 

That same afternoon Rose paid her promised visit to 
Mrs. Simpson, driving over in the pony-carriage after five- 
o’clock tea. She found the invalid seated upon the sofa 
in the kitchen, where her daughter was also sitting busied 
with needle- work. Rose shook hands with them both cor- 
dially, as was her wont, and asked how they had been get- 
ting on during her absence. 

“Ah, we have had a bad time of it, haven’t we, ’Liza ?” 

’Liza assented, as she always did to her mother’s appeals, 
beyond which little scope was generally left for her con- 
versational powers. 


WOETHY FRUITS. 


149 


‘‘Father was thro wed out of the cart he was driving/’ 
Mrs. Simpson continued, “his horse taking fright. That 
was live weeks ago last Monday. He broke his leg in two 
places, and there he has been laid up in bed ever since and 
not able to do a stroke of work. He is only just begin- 
ning to sit up now.” 

Kose expressed her sympathy. 

“ And I don’t know what ever we should have done if it 
hadn’t been for Mr. Greye — that’s our lodger. Miss, a 
young gentleman that works at Marsden’s. He has been 
that good to us, you wouldn’t hardly believe ! I may say 
he’s supported us all since poor father was took ill. I’m 
sure we never shall forget his kindness to our dying days ; 
now shall we, ’Liza ? ” 

“He has been good to us!” said the girl, warmly. 

Her mother went on : “ When father had this accident, 
I told him ’Liza would have so much to do nursing us 
both, that he had better go to some other house, as we 
shouldn’t be able, I was afraid, to make him comfortable ; 
but he said as he would rather stay, and he wouldn’t require 
much waiting on. And I am sure he hasn’t, for he does 
pretty near everything for himself, and a good deal for 
’Liza too.” 

“ Why, yes,' Miss,” said her daughter, looking up from 
her work; “he brings in all the water for me, and chops 
the wood, and he lights my fire of a morning. There is 
nothing he won’t do to help us.” 

“And how kind he has been with father !” continued 
Mrs. Simpson, “ sitting up with him at nights when he was 
very bad and all. I never see any one like Mr. Greye in a 
sick-room. He’s so clever and handy at doing anything, 
and so gentle like. Father would never let any one touch 
his leg but him. He never seemed to hurt him as the rest 
of us did. That’s being a gentleman, you see. He don’t 
do things rough and awkward, like we should.” 


150 


FRANCIS. 


‘^Yes, that is being a gentleman/'’ said Kose, and her 
eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. They were also bright 
from another cause. I know something about this young 
man/’ she went on, ^^but I thought he himself was living 
upon ten shillings a week. How does he manage to help 
you ? ” 

Mrs. Simpson appealed to ’Liza. 

“ He is on piece-work now, you see, Miss,” she explained, 
‘‘and that brings as much as twenty shillings or twenty- 
five shillings a week sometimes. But I am sure he has 
spent every penny of it upon us,” she added. 

“ Mr. Greye is out in the garden now, ain’t he ? ” said 
Mrs. Simpson. 

’Liza opened the door of the washhouse. 

“He is there. Miss,” she said, coming back, “but he is 
in his shirt-sleeves. He is blacking his boots.” 

The wind caught the door as she was speaking and blew 
it back. Francis, thus discovered, put down his brush 
and the boot he had been polishing, and advanced with a 
very merry smile and the identical bow which she remem- 
bered so well. 

“ I am afraid I can’t shake hands,” he said, glancing at 
the light summer glove on the one held out to him for the 
purpose. “Mine are, to put it mildly,” he explained, “a 
little dirty !” 

“Never mind,” was Eose’s answer; and he could not 
but yield, and take the hand still stretched out. A warm, 
strong pressure returned that of his grimy fingers. 

The glove was spoilt ; but Kose has kept it to this day, 
and she says that since she wore it at about the happiest 
moment in her existence, she shall preserve it all her life 
as a remembrance thereof. 

“ By the way, there is something I have been wanting to 
speak to you about,” said Francis, as he walked with Eose 
down the garden path between the neat rows of beds he had 


WORTHY FRUITS. 


151 


of late been digging. “You remember the day, last 
autumn, when I met you in the lane, and said you would 
probably want some proof of my having kept to the prom- 
ise I made you — which offer you were generous enough to 
decline ? 

I remember.^’ 

^^Well, I have the money, of course, which I have not 
spent this year — three hundred pounds and a little more, 
I believe, and I intend to make it over to you. You will 
know much better than I what use to make of it,'’^ he went 
on, ^^but I thought” — he hesitated a little — if something 
could be done for those people I lived amongst in Fladgate 
Street, I should be rather glad — the little children perhaps ? 
But I leave it entirely to you.” 

Kose^s eyes, which had been fixed upon him intently 
during this speech, suddenly changed their direction, and 
gazed straight before her with a very far-away look indeed 
— a look which reminded Francis of some picture he had 
seen of the face of an angel rapt in adoration. Words 
seemed to tremble on her lips, but “I will do what 
you wish,” was all she said when she turned to answer 
him. 

As he helped her into the pony-carriage, she asked him 
if he had grown quite strong and well again, adding, “ You 
are certainly looking so.” 

“ I never was better in my life,” he answered, and smil- 
ing, ‘-^my penance has been doing me good.” 

You must have found it very hard, sometimes.” 

“That is Jnst the beauty of it. If it had not been some- 
thing worth doing I could not have had quite the feeling 
I have in looking forward to the 22d of July. Will you 
come to meet me, then,” he said, speaking in very low 
tones, in the meadows between our old ravine and the 
lane? You remember the hour ?” 

Half -past five?” 


152 


FEAKCIS. 


Half-past five/’ 

Then Kose drove away, and saw no more of Francis till 
the 22d of July. • 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE 22D of JULY. 

Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love 
Accompany your hearts ! 

Midsummer Night's Bream, v. i. 

With a strange thrill of rapture and excitement the 
two lovers ,hailed the dawn of the 22d of July, that day 
which was to finish his trial and to bring to an end her 
patient waiting. With a strange feeling they watched the 
hours slip by, bringing them to that to which both had 
looked forward for so long. The sun shone gayly in his 
full summer vigor, and the breeze danced lightly among 
the flowers. With joyful yet tremulous fingers Kose ar- 
rayed herself to go forth and meet her lover, to give him 
the due guerdon of his pains and toils, herself, with the 
treasure of strong love laid up for him in her heart. Never, 
surely, had man striven more worthily, or for a more 
worthy prize. 

And he ? Francis looked back through the year which 
had dragged its weary length so painfully and slowly, 
which had at times seemed so very nearly unbearable. 
And he blessed it, the penance which he had chosen, and 
the resolution which had enabled him to keep to it, and, 
by virtue of its strength, had invigorated and fortified his 
character throughout. This had been the crisis of his 
life, the crisis of which Rose had spoken. He had passed 
through it now ; and Francis had not failed. 

Through the fields came Rose, her ears attent, her heart 
beating exceeding fast. She crossed the first stile, and 


THE 22d of JULY. 


153 


walked up the narrow path between the ears of golden 
corn, with the poppies dazzling red between, and blue 
cornflowers and little pale pansies that rested modestly 
upon the ground. 

Hark ! In the distance there was a sound, approaching 
nearer. Some one was whistling an air, and the air was 
II Toreador, 

Eose stood still for a moment, with hands suddenly 
clasped. Then she hastened on, and just as she reached 
the second stile Francis leapt over it. He ran forward, 
without a bow this time, and caught both her hands in 
his. 

I have won you ! he cried, with a ring of unspeaka- 
ble triumph in his voice. My Eose, my own Eose ! 
But, darling, I want to say something to you flrst.” He 
loosed her hands, and his face grew grave. When you 
made that promise to me at the Healtheries a year ago 
upon certain conditions, you had no idea that I should 
keep to what I said I should do, as you yourself told me. 
And I should be a brute if I were to hold you to your part 
of the agreement because I was obstinate and would stick 
to my word. If I had not been obstinate, you see, I should 
have given in, as you thought that I should, long ago. I 
fancy you had a much better notion of what I was under- 
taking than I had then myself.^^ And he smiled. Well, 
I have done it, but I love you much too well to ask you 
to be my wife unless you are quite certain that there is no 
one else you have seen between that time and this — he 
looked at her very steadily, speaking slowly — ‘^that you 
like better than me ; unless you feel that if nothing bound 
you to me now you would say ^ yes ’ all the same. For 
you are not bound. I free you from any engagement ab- 
solutely, fully and completely, and I will never say an- 
other word to persuade you unless you can tell me truly 
that I have your whole heart.” 


154 


FRANCIS. 


“ Do you want to know if I love you, Francis ? 

There was a quiver of passionate tenderness in her voice. 
She looked at him. 

No need to ask the question now. 

He held out his arms : they closed round her, she laid 
her head upon his breast, and — what will you more? 

In the sky overhead the lark sang a love song of exceed- 
ing sweetness, and the evening sun shone down. 


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The life of a semi-metropolitan village, with its own aristocracy, 
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the last. — Boston Traveller. 

The plot has been constructed with no little skill, and the charac- 
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trayed with great distinctness. The book is written in an entertain- 
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a large number of readers. — Christian at Work, N. Y. 

One of the best — if not the very best — of the society novels of the 
season. — Detroit Free Press. 

Of peculiar interest as regards plot, and with much grace and 
freshness of style. — Brooklyn Times. 

The plot has been constructed with no little skill, and the characters 
— all of them interesting and worthy of acquaintance — are portrayed 
with great distinctness . — ^iscopal Itecorder, Philadelphia. 

A clever and entertaining novel. It is wholly social, and the 
theatre is a small one ; but the characters are varied and are drawn 
with a firm hand ; the play of human passion and longing is well- 
defined and brilliant ; and the movement is effective and satisfac- 
tory. . . . The love story is as good as the social study, making alto- 
^ther an uncommonly entertaining book for vacation reading. — 
Wilmington (Del.) Morning News. 


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STORMONTH’S ENGLISH DICTIONARY. 

A Dictionary of the English Language, Pronouncing, Etymological, 
and Explanatory, Embracing Scientific and Other Terms, Numeral 
ous Familiar Terms, and a Copious Selection of Old English 
Words, By the Rev, James Stormontii. The Pronunciation 
Carefully Revised by the Rev. P. H. Phelp, M.A. pp. 1248. 
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Also in Harper’s Franklin Square Library, in Twenty- 
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As regards thoroughness of etymological research and breadth of modern inclusion, 
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.Dictionary possesses merits so many and conspicuous that it can hardly fail to estab- 
lish itself as a standard and a favorite. — V. F. Tribune. 

This may serve in great measure the purposes of an English cyclopajdia. It gives 
lucid and succinct deflnitions of the technical terms in science and art, in law and 
medicine. We have the explanation of words and phrases that puzzle most people, 
showing wonderfully comprehensive and out-of-the-way research. We need only add 
that the Dictionary appears in all its departments to have been brought down to meet 
the latest demands of the day, and that it is admirably printed. — Times., London. 

A most valuable addition to the library of the scholar and of the general reader. 
It can have for the present no possible rival. — Boston Post. 

It has the bones and sinews of the grand dictionary of the future. * * * An invalu- 
able library book. — Ecclesiastical Gazette, London. 

A work which is certainly without a rival, all things considered, among the dic- 
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ed to the uses of the man of business, who demands compactness and ease of reference, 
and to those of the most exigent scholar. — N. F. Commercial Advertiser. 

As compared with our standard dictionaries, it is better in type, richer in its vocab- 
ularj’, and happier in arrangement. Its system of grouping is admirable. * * * jje 
who possesses this dictionary will enjoy and use it, and its bulk is not so great as to 
make use of it a terror. — Christian Advocate, N. Y. 

A well-planned and carefully executed work, which has decided merits of its own, 
and for which there is a i)lace not filled by any of its rivals. — N. F. Sun. 

A work of sterling value. It has received from all quarters the highest commenda- 
tion. — Lutheran Observer, Philadelphia. 

A trustworthy, truly scholarly dictionary of our English language. — Christian Intel- 
ligencer, N. Y. 

The fssuo of Stormonth’s great English dictionary is meeting with a hearty wel- 
come everywhere. — Boston Transcript. 

A critical and accurate dictionary, the embodiment of good scholarship and the 
result of modern researches. Compression and clearness are its external evidences, 
and it offers a favorable comparison with the best dictionaries in use, while it holds an 
unrivalled place in bringing forth the result of modern philological criticism. — Boston 
Journal. 

Full, complete, and accurate, including all the latest words, and giving all their 
derivatives and correlatives. The definitions are short, but plain, the method of mak- 
ing pronunciation very simple, and the arrangement such as to give the best results 
in the smallest space. — Philadelphia Inquirer. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

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